


The Broken Forest

by nightmaremagnet



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Beholding, Drugging, Hallucinations, Insanity, Insomnia, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of canon deaths, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaremagnet/pseuds/nightmaremagnet
Summary: Convinced his nightmares of Albrecht’s death are Jonah’s doing, Jonathan travels to London to confront him. When the nightmares bleed into reality, Jonathan will do anything to make them stop, even if that means taking Jonah back to Württemberg’s tomb.
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 38
Kudos: 119
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemainofthewater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/gifts).



> As drugging can be a triggering topic I’ve written spoilers at the end of the story detailing how it’s used here.

_Jonathan Fanshawe sits at the fire’s hearth, listening as Albrecht reads from a newly bound book. The pages are blank. Irrelevant. Albrecht does not have eyes with which to read but two hollow holes in the middle of his face, gouged to the bone with coroners precision._

_Jonathan knows professional skill when he sees it._

_The heat is unbearable and Jonathan’s heard these stories before. He makes his excuses and rises to leave._

_“Leg sie ala zurück,” Albrecht says._

_There is a knife in his hand._

_“If you’re sure?”_

_“Put them back,” Albrecht says, “put them back.”_

_There is a knife in Jonathan’s hand. He tells Albrecht to lay still. It will be easier if he doesn’t move._

_There is a knife in Albrecht’s stomach. Jonathan cringes as he slides the blade down, squeamish as he pulls the skin apart._

_Hundreds of eyes look up at him, pupils contracting in the light._

_Jonathan frowns, he cannot remember what color Albrecht’s eyes are. He does not know which to choose._

_He pushes his hand inside, feeling for two that will fit inside his skull._

_When he looks down, he finds the eyes have bled into his own skin. Pupils dug in deep, blinking up at him from deep grooves in his palms._

Jonathan wakes soaked through with sweat and shivering beneath the covers, digging his nails into the palm of his hand to scratch out the imaginary parasites.

He should think one would get used to nightmares, that the potency of their terror would fade with weeks of regularity and yet…

And yet.

He hasn’t had proper sleep in well over a fortnight and it shows in his weak steps and blurry eyes that have grown shadowed and heavy lidded.

The sun has barely crested the horizon but he knows from experience that there is no use trying to turn over and get another few hours in. The day will properly begin soon enough and he heads to the mirror, doing what he can to camouflage the physical signs of how truly awful his life has become. The nightmares, the anxiety, the similarities of ill fate that Jonathan recognizes from the days proceeding Albrecht’s tragic death.

He pulls out a respectable, finely pressed change of clothes and rearranges the fit to conceal his thinning frame. He pinches his cheeks to bring life to his pallor.

He won’t be seen stumbling into Jonah’s lair.

* * *

The Magnus Institute is not a large building, simple and innocuous for the devil that lives inside it, yet Jonathan feels swallowed whole and impossibly small as he waits in the foyer to be greeted.

Often he has joked of the strange profession Jonah has found himself in, having made a career of what most men would call a hobby, and an absurd one at that. It is a small gossip amongst their mutual acquaintances that only through Jonah’s remarkable habit of befriending societies darlings has he been allowed to profit off such eccentric aims without providing any sort of practical service to the community.

That, and the small matter of his… well, politely speaking, Jonah’s treasure trove of terrible secrets. Credited as a natural confidant, with incomparable discretion, many have felt at ease confiding their darker tales to him. Where there is no fear of solicited blackmail so too is there no fear of untoward discourse. There has never been reason, not even vague rumor, to suspect Jonah Magnus as anything but a studious, decent man.

Jonah is comfortable.

He is complaisant.

He is prudent.

But Jonathan can no longer consider him harmless. His intrigues have proven themselves dangerous and would only that Jonathan could go straight to the authorities and not be laughed away.

Despite the finality of their last correspondence, Jonah greets him warmly. “There have been many nights I longed to write to you, but I couldn’t find the words that would convince you not to throw my letters into the fire.”

Jonathan wouldn’t have opened a single letter bearing Jonah’s seal.

“Perhaps your shame was too great?” Jonathan suggests.

Jonah sighs. “I had hoped this to be a reconciliation rather than a confrontation.”

“You thought no such thing.”

Jonah inclines his head in agreement. “Well, a man can dream, can he not?”

Jonathan glares in amazement at the unabashed mockery of his words, though Jonah only stares innocently back.

“Come,” Jonah says, “we can speak in my office.”

“Said the spider to the fly?”

“…if you’ve a more agreeable place?”

“There’s a café across the street.” With plenty of people to stand unknowing guard against Jonah’s mechanisms.

And, perhaps, to keep them both in check.

“So there is. Allow me to retrieve my coat.”

Jonathan nods once and turns on his heel, leaving the godawful building to wait for Jonah outside.

It’s terribly disconcerting to loiter outside of the institute, knowing it for what it truly is, but Jonathan hadn’t been sure how to go about getting Jonah’s London address when, last he knew, the man still resided in Edinburgh.

What few overlapping friends they have live far enough away that it would take a week, at least, before a response would come, if any response at all, and…

Jonathan hadn’t been convinced he could bear a weeks wait, and weeks more for travel itself.

He’d assumed seeing Jonah again, taking a stand against his villainy, would feel a great deal more empowering. That shifting the imbalance between them from passive target to challenger would be an uplifting game changer.

Yet, waiting outside for Jonah, he feels frustration. Unfortunately remembering it’s not in Jonah’s nature to be easily swayed.

“Jonathan?”

Jonathan blinks and sees Jonah standing across from him, bundled warm in his coat and looking at him with mild mannered concern.

“Shall we?” Jonathan asks, not waiting for a reply before walking, trusting Jonah to keep pace.

There’s nothing wrong about vendors watching him as he passes, and he himself is guilty of giving a fellow a second glance on the street, yet he cannot help but feel unduly scrutinized by the pedestrians tipping their heads as they walk past, looking at him with an unnecessarily studious gaze as he crosses the street.

“Do I truly look so ill that people must stare?”

He wishes he didn’t recognize the specific brand of curiosity in Jonah’s eyes, that he could fool himself for a half second that Jonah’s attentive expression has anything to do with him and not the macabre state he finds himself in; that Jonah isn’t longing to dissect his torment, whether or not it forfeits Jonathan’s life.

But such is the way with hardline academics.

“I’ve seen you look better,” Jonah admits, “and I’ve seen you look worse.”

Jonathan nods sharply and eyes Jonah with suspicion when he holds the café door open for him to pass through.

They seat themselves and order coffees, if only to justify their loitering.

Jonathan begins, “You know why I’m here.”

“You sent no missive.”

“Even so.”

“Even so. …and I do wish I had a cure for your malady, but such skills are out of my reach.”

“And if I asked those friends of yours? Scott, Lukas? What would they say?”

“They would warn me against putting words in their mouths,” Jonah chides. “Though neither are men of medicine and I find it unlikely they would pretend otherwise.”

“Medicine? Let’s not pretend, Jonah. We both know this to be a curse, fanciful as that sounds.”

“I see,” Jonah says, with a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Do you think me a witch, Jonathan?”

A childish claim, yet to hear it spoken out loud he can think of no better label.

“You have books,” he argues, “filled with dark secrets.”

Jonah shakes his head with belittling calm and Jonathan slams his hands on the table. “Don’t patronize me, Jonah!”

Around the café a dozen heads turn, eyes boring down on him, heavy with curiosity.

Jonathan cringes and lowers his voice. “How dare you ask me to beg.”

“I’ve asked no such–”

“The hell you haven’t.”

Frustration, even anger, suffuses Jonah’s voice. “What would you hear me say, Fanshawe? Truly, I cannot begin to fathom what tall tales I could spin that would soothe you. I offer you a job and you accuse me of harvesting rapists and murderers for unholy rites. I ask you to check upon a mutual friend and you say I’ve replaced his organs with _eyes_. And now, here you are, with fantastical claims that I’m… what, Jonathan? Making one final use of our failed acquaintance to feed demons with your torment?” Jonah scoffs, glaring daggers into him. “Please, do tell me what depths of depravity I might confess that will satisfy you.”

Jonathan glares at Jonah for making a mockery of his plight and they fall into heavy silence, anger that fades into exhaustion.

Jonah is subdued and conciliatory when he continues, “I apologize. That was unacceptable.” He rubs his forehead, silent for a time with the brooding expression of a man collecting his thoughts.

Loathe as he is to give Jonah time to come up with an outrageous defense, he waits.

“I will confess to the crimes I have committed, for I did steal Albrecht’s books from the tomb,” Jonah says. “I did not believe his fondness for them to be academic and I wanted to see them studied amongst scholars. I suspected, as you suspected, that it was my subterfuge that caused his strange illness, but you must also believe how foolish I felt to think such a thing. In hindsight, yes. But should I have told you, Jonathan Fanshawe, a finely educated man of science, that I feared poltergeists infested books? That graveyards are full of ghosts? Would you still have gone or laughed me off as so many of my colleagues have before?”

Jonah says it like he’s trying to make a fool of Jonathan’s troubles. To make it all a comical grasping at straws to excuse his mourning. To find reason in Albrecht’s passing, even if that reason is…

There are a hundred words Jonathan wants to say, but none of them are appropriate for polite society. He settles on, “You won’t fool me as you’ve done so many others, Jonah. You could have convinced me headless horsemen travel those old roads with more ease than of your innocence now.”

Jonah sighs. “I don’t want you to beg, Jonathan, but at the least I’d request civility.”

“It pains me to accuse you of such amoral actions,” Jonathan concedes, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “You must know that.”

Jonah raises his eyebrow skeptically and does not engage with the topic. “Then you’d like to see Albrecht’s original books?”

“I’ve not yet taken leave of _all_ my senses.”

“I’ve read them without consequences. They sat upon Paine’s shelves for weeks before I was able to retrieve them. You’ve a more clinical mind than I and another set of eyes would be welcome.”

“I said no, Jonah.”

Jonah frowns. “Are you asking me for referrals, then? I’m afraid you’re the only physician I’m on first name terms with, but I can make inquiries.”

Jonathan washes his hands over his face. “No. Modern medicine holds no cure for me.”

“I see.”

Yes. And Jonathan sees as well, what it must look like to Jonah. Asking him to stop his life and do the heavy lifting that Jonathan might idly lounge and wait to accept or scorn his efforts.

Lazy.

“I can pay you.”

Jonah frowns; offended, perhaps, though Jonathan fails to see how his niche organization can be bringing in much in the way of profit. Certainly not enough to finance the place and provide a steady income.

“A favor,” Jonah counters.

“One with stipulations. I won’t become further entangled with your twisted ambitions.”

“Would this ‘stipulation’ exclude writing an account of your experiences? I have heard putting stressful events into writing can be quite cathartic.”

“I’ve written you plenty of ghost stories already, Jonah.”

“Yet, for all the time you spent documenting them, I received only one that could be verified.”

Albrecht, of course. It must be.

Jonathan sighs and nods his acceptance of payment. What harm can it bring, in light of answers.

“Very well,” Jonah says. “Then tell me what’s happening to you.”

* * *

In his hotel, Jonathan stares at the blank paper, unsure where even to begin.

The peculiar itch of being followed, only to turn and find no one there?

The knowing glances of strangers on the street, as though they are privy to a joke at his expense?

The nightmares, flashbacks that are distorted into terrifying nonsense?

Jonathan finds his indecision hardly matters for when he puts pen to paper, his thoughts become surer, compartmentalized. His words find a rhythm of delicate prose.

Exhausting work, but as he signs his name at the bottom of the page it feels as though he is peacefully emerging from a gentle, meditative state. His muscles are loose and his thoughts are tranquil.

Jonah was right, in as much as catharsis goes.

He yawns as he looks over his version of events to find he’s written down facts he scarcely recalls in detail, evoking emotions he couldn’t have articulated in speech.

He finds no errors of punctuation or spelling and folds the paper into an envelope for when next he meets with Jonah.

Jonathan gets his first true rest in weeks, sleeping straight through Wednesday and into the evening.

Witchcraft, perhaps, but a welcomed spell all the same.

* * *

And then the world crashes down around him.

* * *

The mind has a way of knowing when someone is watching. Jonathan has never studied the psychology of it, but he knows the brain is, indeed, attune to picking up subtle cues that conscious observation tends to overlook.

He knows he’s being watched.

Caught in a hunters sights.

Jonathan’s given lectures in study halls where he expects his words to be acknowledged, remembered and repeated in essays. To be learned from. Yet, he feels shrunken and frail at the idea that someone is evaluating him _now._ Here. Cataloguing what he’s doing. Reading his thoughts. Judging the shoddy reasoning that leads to his actions.

Self doubt assails him and he doesn’t remember how to walk with casual nonchalance. He swings his arms at his side, clasps them behind his back, how does one usually stand? How long should he stare when nodding informal acknowledgement to the ladies on the streets? To the gentleman exiting the carriage he hails?

Jonathan turns quickly away, embarrassed by such ridiculousness, and finds himself at a newsstand.

The printed face on the news board turns its head. The paper crinkles, the ink smudges, the eyes watch him, monochrome grey and calculating.

He looks at the vendor, a question on the tip of his tongue as to the phenomenon. Illusion or…

The vendor smiles. His teeth stare.

* * *

The mannequins in the shop window break their plastic faces to blink at him.

* * *

He can feel the peculiar sensation of eyes burning into his back.

Metaphorically speaking.

Jonathan looks up at the waiter, who glances away. Coincidence?

He lowers his fork and reaches for his brandy.

His hands shake terribly and he glances around, mortified that anyone might notice.

He holds tighter, with both hands, trying to steady the thing that he might take a sip.

The glass breaks and cuts his skin.

Jonathan curses the poorly constructed dishware of the discount diner.

He’s struck, suddenly, with an irrational fear of the blood flowing from the wounds. He hasn’t been squeamish in a good long while, but finds his imagination running wildly away from him and is certain, absolutely positive, that it won’t be red leaking from his palms but white mucus sclera.

* * *

There are people following him as he treks through the hotel. He can’t see them, but he knows. He knows they’re there. He navigates the stairs cautiously, glancing behind him, to the side, checking his periphery.

It occurs to Jonathan that this might, indeed, be a scheme of Jonah’s doing.

Has he paid someone to have him followed? Is there someone reporting their findings back to his institute?

Hand on the door to his room, he hesitates to enter. Anyone could have gotten inside. Hiding. Trap set, ready to spring.

* * *

Jonathan splashes water on his face and looks up into his mirror. A dreadful sight. Clammy, sallow skin. Messy hair. Unflattering stubble growing awkwardly on his jaw.

He stares into his tired eyes, trying to encourage resilience and strength into himself, but the longer he looks the more his features shift and shadow. Deform.

This is a natural illusion. Selective processing. The low light. The flickering flame.

His eyes grow thick and wide, expanding to take up the whole of his face.

A trick of the mind.

They expand past the capacity of his skin to hold and fall to splash in the mirror’s basin.

The world goes dark.

Jonathan can’t see.

He panics, grabbing at his face, feeling his eyes, flailing and falling in his haste to get away.

* * *

_In Jonathan's nightmares, Albrecht’s tree is burning._

_Its ancient branches writhe in agony, stretching up into the sky until the clouds shimmer, distorted in the heat wave._

_The ground quakes as the roots struggle to fight free; to save itself before the smoke chokes it._

_Jonathan Fanshawe steps forward, close as he dares._

_The toasting crinkle of leaves sound like tortured wails._

_There’s a man in a black dated coat, long out of style. Jonathan can’t make out his face beneath his wide brimmed hat._

_“It’s in pain,” Jonathan tells him. “Someone ought to put the wretched thing out of its misery.”_

_“Rain’ll take care of that,” the man says and tips his head back to look up at the sky._

_The sun boils and blinks. Drips of flame fall like teardrops, sizzling when they splash upon the ground._

_Scalding rain falls upon Jonathan and he screams._

_The heavy downpour pounds on him, droplets of fire land on his nose, his lips, his cheeks and jaw, scorching his flesh and melting his bone until only his eyes remain._

* * *

He stops eating, stops sleeping. The room is stifling with the smell of someone wasting away inside it.

There’s a knock on his door.

A voice.

“Jonathan?”

Jonah.

He knocks again and waits. Waits. Waits.

Doesn’t leave.

Jonathan _knows_ he’s out there, can _feel_ him outside.

Minutes pass and Jonah knocks again, calling out his name.

“I can’t,” Jonathan whispers, but his voice is too soft to breach the door. “ _Jonah, leave._ ” Too loud. It echoes in the room. “Please, go. Please.”

“Open this door, Jonathan Fanshawe, or I will have it knocked down.”

He grabs his hair, overwhelmed at the thought of the world outside. The spectators. The witnesses. The knowing. The judgement.

“Very well,” Jonah says. “Then you force my hand.”

“Wait!” Jonathan says, scrambling to reach the door. “No, Jonah. I– okay. Okay. Just you, correct? You are alone?” But he knows Jonah is. He _knows_.

He swallows thickly, anxiously opening the door an inch, two, halfway expecting a Skinwalker to pounce from the other side.

There is only Jonah.

Jonathan ushers him inside, slamming the door quickly behind them for fear of deception.

“My word,” Jonah breathes in disbelief. “What has happened, Jonathan?”

“Shouldn’t you know? If not your doing, then it’s certainly your occupation,” Jonathan says, spinning away, eyes downcast so he might not look at Jonah’s face, might not see mad hallucinations or pity or disgust.

“My occupation is research.”

“Then what have you found?”

“I suspect nothing useful. These symptoms were not amongst the criteria I searched for.”

“Symptoms! You are no doctor, Jonah.”

“Be that as it may, I didn’t think to add… mania to my research.”

“You should have. Insomnia can lend itself to dreadful things, Jonah. Dreadful things.”

“You didn’t speak of _insomnia_. Explain to me what’s changed. Leave nothing out.”

“Take me as a fool to believe demons walk amongst us, but I’ve seen them, Jonah. Before, in my dreams and now in the faces I pass on the street. In strange shadows with no other explanation. I did as you asked. I did as you asked, and then…”

It seems to Jonathan that Jonah’s attention focuses from him to the statement, sat untouched for days, without hesitation.

Jonah takes a seat at the table and doesn’t ask permission before he unfolds the paper and begins to read.

Jonathan paces behind him. A hundred words he longs to say, but the stillness of Jonah as he reads keeps him silent.

He falls into the chair across and, exhausted, drops his head into his hands.

At length, Jonah lowers the letter and leans back in his chair. He rubs a hand over his jaw and stares pensively ahead. “This is no explanation for your sorry state.”

Jonah ducks his head, trying to catch Jonathan’s eyes. Miserably, Jonathan relents and looks at him with grave apprehension.

Jonah watches him with uncharacteristic stillness, waiting for Jonathan to elaborate.

“It’s madness, Jonah. Utter, utter chaos.”

“Chaos? Is that the appropriate word you’d use?”

“It _is_ the word I used.”

Jonah frowns and looks back down at Jonathan’s testimony, skimming it once more. “This statement you wrote, it reads more as steady, systematic night terrors.”

“And at the time, it was. Or are you calling me a liar?”

Jonah looks taken aback at the vehemence of his accusation, but replies mildly. “I’m questioning what’s changed.”

“ _You_ , perhaps?”

“I wonder… If you wrote this again,” Jonah says, holding up Jonathan’s pages. “A second draft, if it would reflect the current state of your–”

Jonathan grabs the papers, ripping them in two and then four and then eight while Jonah scrambles to stop him.

“There’s your bloody statement, Magnus _,_ ” he snaps, throwing the scraps back at him. “ _Enjoy!_ ”

“Did you know,” Jonah says quietly, “in some myths, breaking the object of misfortune releases its power three fold into the world.”

Jonathan slouches back in his chair, whimpering pitifully.

Jonah leans down to retrieve the pieces. “Quite.”

“Then I’m to die,” Jonathan says with quiet certainty.

This cannot go on.

He cannot live like this. Physically or mentally. It’s killing him.

“A fear many would empathize with,” Jonah says, coldly.

“You?”

“I’m confident the souls I’ve been harvesting will grant me everlasting life.” Jonathan frowns unhappily until Jonah provides an honest answer. “I’m not thrilled by the prospect of the unknown with or without a priest to forgive my sins.”

“A priest.”

Jonah tucks the shreds of paper into his pocket and shrugs. “A convenient loophole for the dubiously pious. Perhaps it works? There’s none to say.”

“There’s God to say.”

“Ah, yes. Shall I write to him, then? Have you an address?”

Something of the new hypothesis forming in Jonathan’s mind must show on his face because Jonah narrows his eyes. “I’m not bringing you a priest, Jonathan. You are not on your deathbed. What sins do you even have to confess?”

“Consorting with pagan worshipers,” Jonathan says with feeling.

Jonah scoffs. “Then, I wish you luck,” he says, rising from his seat. “With whichever next person you choose to inconvenience.”

Jonathan surprises them both when he crosses the distance between them as though it weren’t there, reaches out and grabs Jonah’s arm. He yanks Jonah off balance and pulls him close. “You _must_ come with me.”

Jonah looks down at the hand gripped tight around him with poorly disguised distaste. Jonathan doesn’t care. He fears what will happen if left to his own devices. His own madness.

“I’m quite sure that’s not true.”

“Have you no compassion? No care in your heart?”

Jonah gives him an incredulous look. “My dear Jonathan, you are little more than accusations and slander.”

“You want stories, you _always_ want stories, and now here is one.”

“Torn to shreds in my pocket.”

“I’ll write you a new one!”

Jonah hesitates.

“I’ll write you a dozen! Please, Jonah, come with me. You needn’t enter the church, if you fear for your safety.”

Jonah’s jaw tightens. The tense silence that follows is a near physical manifestation of a man reaching for patience.

At last, he consents. “I suppose it would be poor manners to let you leave in such a state. Heaven knows what trouble you’ll end up in.”

Jonathan smiles, laughter bubbling from his mouth with hysterical relief.

* * *

The sight of a blessed church is a relief. If salvation is possible, here is where it begins.

Jonathan half expects seizure fits to assail him or to find himself shouting out foreign languages hither to unknown; a warring fit between soul and devil.

He doesn’t feel like a fraud entering the house of God, but nor is he filled with a sense of belonging. He knows he is hunting down loopholes and the saints will know it too. An atheist in a foxhole, praying for the miracles he doesn’t believe in.

The crucifix looms large and overwhelming above the alter. He has to tip his head back to take the whole of it in; Jesus’s emaciated body hanging in limp repose, pained upon the cross, staring down with anguish.

With redemption.

It isn’t the comfort he’s seeking and Jonathan looks away before the sculpture sees him.

Before it looks back.

He’s not sure he’s ever shown a proper reverence or pious adoration for the Lord to grant him salvation. Kneeling before the image of Christ he feels neither humbled nor blessed.

He sighs, tired and afraid to hope, bracing himself to be looked down upon with rejection.

Jonathan speaks softly under his breath, whispering a shopping list of mediocre sins, hardly worth the bother to recount. What care has an almighty for their name being taken in vain? What interest has it in dark thoughts that Jonathan would never act upon?

Still, he begs for the Lord to pray with him and the saints to pray for him. He asks for guidance and urges understanding that he might be shown mercy on earth.

His knees ache by the time he rises.

He turns to see that Jonah has made it over the threshold without bursting into flames and has struck up a conversation with the clergy. He stands with hands clasped behind his back, pleasant smile fixed in place, the picture of gentile.

Walking nearer, Jonathan strains to overhear their quiet discussion.

“It’s taken me decades to believe anything but people and furniture can fill a building,” Jonah says. “Hubris of mankind, I suppose, but as of late…”

“Yes?”

“I question what makes a church what it is. Prayer? Holy books? What brings God to a building, that He might bless it with His presence?”

“God does not live in a church, my dear boy, but is called closer to us with prayer. What you speak of sounds like a crisis of faith.”

Jonathan frowns, stopping himself from interrupting their conversation.

A crisis of faith.

Could it really be so simple?

“The opposite,” Jonah says. “I _know_ of its existence. I see its presence. It is only that I feel…”

“Overlooked.”

“You must think me a thankless blasphemer.”

“Indeed, but I’m afraid what you’re speaking of is spoken often. A crisis, and one that must be truthfully confronted. Many times it is only in hindsight that we understand His guiding light and it is only through self reflection that we can see how He has guided our path. It can be frustrating. Come, let us speak in confession that we might better unravel the underlying cause of your disconnect.”

Oh, _really_.

Jonathan has no interest in wasting the day letting Jonah treat the holy house of God as complimentary therapy. They’d be here all week before he’d finished laying out his crimes.

“Jonah.”

Jonah turns around to nod in acknowledgement of Jonathan’s interruption before turning back to the priest, apologetically. “Sins I have, Father. It is time I lack.”

“A common complaint,” the priest says, sympathetically. “At mass, then, that the words of scripture might guide you.”

“ _Jonah._ ”

Jonah smiles and shakes the priest’s hand. “I thank you for _your_ time.”

“Of course.”

Jonah readjusts his coat as they leave the church and the chill air hits them. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Jonah asks.

“Did _you?_ What were you talking about, with the priest?”

“It’s my understanding that such conversations are considered confidential.”

Jonathan shakes his head and tries to recall if Jonah has always been purposefully frustrating. Mostly, all gossip about the man centers upon his bizarre fascination and obsessive work ethic that borders on, if not surpasses, unhealthy.

Jonah smiles and Jonathan concludes that he is merely trying to make himself look interesting with clandestine implications.

“I’ll escort you to your hotel,” Jonah says, “and then perhaps you should consider your convalesce better spent at home?”

“Perhaps.”

* * *

_The book is empty. Void of words, void of ink. A broken novel._

_Jonathan turns the page._

_Cheap parchment that would bleed and tear under the scratch of a pen._

_He turns the page._

_There’s an ink blotch near in the seam. Cheaply bound._

_With each new page the stain grows thicker, longer and longer. He swipes the pages faster, watching as the ink spreads down in an elegant curve across the paper. A flip book._

_The line parts, opening into a wide oval, rendering the book unusable._

_He turns the page._

_The page turns him._

_The oval bleeds a pupil that stares up at him. All-seeing. All-knowing._

_The page turns him._

_The book reads his life like a penny dreadful._

_A man is the accumulation of his life’s experiences. What he’s learned, who he’s known, how it’s shaped him. The book takes it all, his life blotting its pages and creating a new narrative of Jonathan Fanshawe’s life._

_He is an insubstantial duplicate of himself as the book turns his page._


	2. Chapter 2

The violence with which Jonathan yanks open the doors to The Magnus Institute is bred more from relief than anger. A cursed place, home to a cursed man, but it is a place of answers all the same.

There’s no receptionist at the desk today, but a small bell sat upon a desk. Jonathan eyes it cautiously before tapping it. It’s ridiculously loud in the sparsely decorated foyer.

Quick steps come from three different directions and Jonathan flinches, hoping not to be overrun with young scholars eager for supernatural gossip.

Or, more likely, to get their grubby hands on another illicit shipment of rotting artifacts.

Jonathan bites his tongue on the topic and asks to speak with Jonah. Their expressions freeze in an effort to hide their disappointment and a moment later Jonah Magnus appears, looking likewise dissatisfied to see him.

“Come,” Jonathan says, gesturing to the exit, “I must speak with you.”

“We can talk here.”

“Are you busy? If I must make an appointment…?”

“I’m not busy, Jonathan, and you need not make an appointment. If you wish to talk we can do so here or you can wait outside until I leave for the night.”

Jonathan lowers his voice, aware he is surrounded by Jonah’s colleagues, people who respect him and would no doubt see Jonathan escorted out should he speak ill of their employer. “Why are you doing this?”

Jonah sighs. “I’m afraid the breadth of your accusations is somewhat overwhelming these days. Do narrow it down. Precisely what complaint am I meant to be addressing this time?”

“Don’t play the trickster with me, Jonah. Why must we talk in this damnable place?”

“This is a place of business, Jonathan. One which you have little respect for, but a legitimate business all the same. There are no bodies buried in the basement of which you might join.” Jonah says, sparing a glance at his loitering scholars before leaning closer to speak privately. “I won’t entertain your fears at the expense of my organization. Evil doesn’t lurk in these halls and to pretend otherwise is to invite superstitious gossip of which no one’s reputation deserves.”

Quite honestly, Jonathan thinks it would do more to hurt his own status than Jonah’s, but he can understand the motivation behind Jonah’s frustration.

Jonah softens his voice, “There are things I’d like to discuss with you as well and, look,” Jonah says, gesturing expansively, “plenty of people have seen you enter. They will notice if you don’t leave. Eventually.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“You warrant it.” Jonah says, turning on his heel and walking away, abruptly leaving the decision to Jonathan whether or not to follow.

Jonathan grits his teeth and takes a tentative step forward, following at a cautious pace.

The institute is quiet, as one would expect of a building primarily created to be a library. An eccentric one, perhaps, but an archive all the same. Their footsteps sound over loud on the wooden floors and it draws the attention of Jonah’s researchers, who tip their heads with distracted greetings as they walk by.

They pass empty rooms with large barren bookshelves that speak more of hope than failure. A business that hasn’t hit the ground running, but is steadily finding its footing.

There’s nothing sinister nor intimidating about the place. Logically, Jonathan knows that what he sees is what is to be expected. But logic hasn’t been the dearest of his friends, lately.

Jonah opens the door to his office and doesn’t shut it after Jonathan enters, as though trying to appear accommodating. He leans back against his desk, crosses his ankles and gestures for Jonathan to take the only seat in the room.

“And how has your newfound zest for religion found you?”

Jonathan takes a step towards the chair but falls back a pace when a portrait behind Jonah’s desk shifts its eyes to track his movements.

“I fear it has not.”

“Perhaps there is a delayed response before God is able to authorize mercy?”

“Do not mock the Lord, Jonah!”

“No? Advice you should apply to yourself.”

Jonathan glares at the floor. He’s hardly a _heathen_ , though he’d be wrong to defend the consistency of his prayer.

In his heart, where it matters, he feels devotion. 

He moves the conversation on, afraid that a petty fight might lead Jonah to turn him away. “I need– I want to know, that is, what you’ve found?”

“And have you rewritten your statement?”

Jonathan grimaces. He tried, he’d known Jonah would ask, but his hands shook so and only steadied when… It felt as though his wasn’t the only hand on the pen. As though something besides parchment wanted his words.

“I know you, Jonah. I know you’ve been researching, if only to sate your own curiosity. Tell me. There’s no one else who would care for your findings. None other to make use of them.”

Jonah sighs. “I’ve learned nothing new and quite honestly I’m beginning to suspect I will not. Not here, at any rate.”

“Then where?”

“Schwartzwald.”

“What?”

“We should go to the Black Forest.”

Jonathan has seen nothing to suggest that Jonah would fair any better than Albrecht or himself. The pleasant idea that he might pass this dreadful curse onto Jonah is nearly appealing enough to make him agree, but for the tarnish it would bring to his repenting soul.

“The fires of hell could not make me return.”

“No? My experience might allow me to better see and understand what you and Albrecht overlooked.”

“Understand, Jonah? Or _gain_.”

“A nonsense distinction. I believe travelling to the source of this spreading illness is the next logical step.”

“Yes,” Jonathan says. “Such was my reasoning in coming to you.”

“I can travel without you if you believe your condition too severe to survive the journey,” Jonah says. “Perhaps in my absence you might try your luck with bloodletting. Lobotomies.”

“And you mock me again,” Jonathan scowls, but a not insignificant part of him worries that there is truth to Jonah’s words. _Will_ he end up in a madhouse without Jonah’s dubious support? The victim of a physician’s experimentations, surgeries meant to mend a broken mind? Or be sent to the workhouses, kept shunted away for societies good?

Will he die?

“Perhaps,” Jonathan suggests, “perhaps if we were to return the rightful books to the tomb?”

“Hmm,” Jonah says, leaving the distinct impression that Jonathan will be prying those old tomes out of Jonah’s cold dead hands before they are safely transported back to Schwartzwald.

“I know your reasons aren’t altruistic, Jonah, but I fear that they are merciless. Ruthless. To put it plainly… I fear you are setting a trap, and I the bait.”

Jonah shrugs.

“Will you not even deny it?”

“Why should I? You’re so afraid of me, you never believe a word I say.”

“Afraid of you?” Jonathan muses with great resentment for his helplessness. For all his anger and bitterness, their past history and this current wretched institute… perhaps that is the underlying cause he hasn’t been acknowledging. “How do you feel about that? Some men relish it. Men of power and men who covet it. They enjoy the false authority it brings.”

Jonah nods. “I would enjoy it more if it weren’t creating such an obstacle. I have nothing but the greatest respect for your intellect, but your condemnation means little.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

Jonah sighs. “How can you be bait, when you’ve already been caught?”

“By what?”

“Take me to Württemberg’s tomb,” Jonah says. “I seek similar answers as you. Neither of us are guaranteed them, but the _possibility_ , Jonathan. It’s not such a long trek.”

* * *

Jonah already has two train tickets waiting to be redeemed the next day. He doesn’t even feign an effort to acquire them, simply taunts, “Aren’t you going to call me out for witchcraft, Jonathan? A seer?”

“I won’t attribute sorcery to an idle mind that has nothing better to do than make educated guesses and preen.”

Jonathan makes no offer to pay for his share of the journey and, irritatingly, Jonah doesn’t appear to expect it.

Despite the agreement that they meet at the station, Jonah appears at his hotel to escort him off, like he’s frightened Jonathan will have changed his mind during the night.

Jonathan grits his teeth, glowering, but allows himself to be bundled into the waiting carriage.

“You say we seek similar answers. Similar how?”

“I wish to understand where the potency of your affliction stems from,” Jonah says, and leans back petulantly in his seat. “I find it spectacularly boorish that I’ve so little control over my own devilry.”

“Do not make light of grave accusations!”

Jonah smiles, unapologetic.

Jonathan crosses his arms and turns to the window, determined to ignore Jonah’s goading.

He looks up to the sky overhead to avoid the possibility of eye contact with pedestrians on the sidewalk.

Birds fly overhead. As one they turn their beaks downwards, sharp predator eyes sighting him like a meal. Like prey. If it were only the hallucinations perhaps he could bear it, but he can feel their malice. The _emotions_ in their simplistic minds as they target him for their cruelty.

He cringes back.

“I want to know why Albrecht is dead,” Jonah concedes, watching him somberly.

“The books,” Jonathan reminds him.

Jonah shakes his head. “I’ve read each of them and no ill has befallen me.”

“Perhaps because it was Albrecht who disturbed them?”

“Or perhaps Albrecht knew something he did not tell me. Did not, or could not.”

Jonathan considers this, but finds the former unlikely. Albrecht trusted Jonah, completely.

They continue in meditative silence until the carriage draws to a halt. Jonah raises his hand to the driver and stops Jonathan from immediately exiting.

“I have something for you.”

Jonathan eyes him critically. “I’m not sure accepting gifts from you is a wise course of action.”

“All the same,” Jonah says, unimpressed as always with Jonathan’s defiance. He pulls from his pocket a simple corded rosary, modest and unassuming. Small wooden beads and a crucifix dangling from his fingers – maybe silver, probably pewter.

“A talisman,” Jonah explains.

Jonathan scowls. “That is a _rosary,_ Jonah.”

Upon closer inspection Jonathan sees the Our Father beads look worn with use and he is struck with a dark thought that Jonah might have stolen this, just as he stole Albrecht’s books.

“Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift,” Jonah says, raising his hand to ward off interruptions. “By a priest of your very own faith. Indeed, you met him briefly.”

Jonathan stares at it, recalling with tired recollection that, yes, he had seen Jonah confiding in a priest.

He reaches hesitantly for it and Jonah pools the strand into the palm of Jonathan’s hand, curling his fingers around the beads.

“I don’t know why your god is failing you,” Jonah says, with great solemnity, “but I do know it is possible to be protected by faith. I’ve seen it before.”

“I am ashamed to admit that I have questioned the Lord's strength,” Jonathan says, swallowing thickly around the disgraceful confession, one of which he knows Jonah won’t judge him for; won’t care at all about. “But if what you say is true, then perhaps it is simply I who am forsaken.”

Jonah eyes him critically, silent for a time before he disagrees. “We are not so closely acquainted that I might speak with authority, but, no, I do not think you forsaken,” Jonah says, seeming to have a way of making simple reassurances sound ambiguous. “Come, we have stalled the driver long enough.”

Jonah doesn’t let him out of arms reach as the station slowly packs with well wishers seeing their loved ones off. He sits Jonathan down to have his shoes shined, and shined again, distracting him with idle chatter whenever he lifts his head to inspect his fellow travelers.

But for all that Jonah’s adopted the role of caretaker, his concern seems once removed, if it exists at all.

Jonathan thinks he’s already a cadaver to be dissected in Jonah’s eyes. The same vague curiosity for the life and passions of a person that Jonathan had for corpses in medical school, before he set out practicing techniques with detached care.

They loiter in the back of the crowded throng so they might be the last to board. What seems like a cautious plan becomes hell halfway down the isle.

Jonathan would swear on the lives of his unborn children that every rider on the train turns their head to face him.

In perfect synchronicity, they swivel like owls in his direction. Necks twist in unnatural angles. Vertebraes crack. Men rise from their chairs in the back for an unobstructed view. Babies in their mothers arms raise their heads for the first time to glare.

“Jonathan?”

Jonathan swallows thickly.

It isn’t real.

Lunacy. Utter, utter madness.

He closes his eyes and steps backwards, longing to vacate the damned place, but the isle is narrow and Jonah is behind him, trapping him in.

“Jonathan?”

He doesn’t recognize the sound of pitiful misery that comes from his lips like a beaten dog but Jonah reacts to it, placing his hands firmly on Jonathan’s shoulders and encouraging him forward. “We’ll sit nearer the front,” Jonah says quietly. “Where you needn’t see the passengers.”

Jonathan tries, truly, but he cannot bring himself to put one foot in front of the other, into the claustrophobic ocean of faces staring fantastically at him, through him, _into him_.

“I can’t.”

“You can,” Jonah says with a firmer push, relentlessly driving him forward. “Because these tickets were not free and _I_ have to justify expenses.”

“What?”

Jonah shoves him and Jonathan stumbles into the gruesome scene.

A quick whispered conversation, an exchange of bills and Jonah is able to obtain them front row seats.

Jonathan cringes as the previous occupants smile sickly at him as they switch rows. He turns to look in horror on the twisted faces behind them, unmoving and unblinking until Jonah grabs his chin and yanks his head forward. “An illusion, as you well know. Endeavor to put it from your mind.”

It is a nightmare of an experience.

The train car is hellishly silent throughout the day. Not a whisper, not a cough. Everyone on board too engrossed reading the story of Jonathan’s life with their monstrous eyes to move a muscle.

Logically, he knows this cannot be true and more than once Jonah tries to start up a conversation, but his voice is so loud in the muted cabin that Jonathan flinches and shushes him.

He spends the journey tense and terrified, trying to emulate Jonah’s ease of travel.

* * *

“Jonathan? What did you see on the train today?”

His reply is a pathetic whimper.

“You must tell me, Jonathan. I need to know. What did you see?”

Jonathan shakes his head.

He didn’t see. He doesn’t see. He is seen.

He is _seen_.

“I was seen. Jonah, they _saw_ _me_.”

“And what did they see?”

“Everything.”

“By which you mean…?”

“We have to stop this madcap adventure. I should never have trusted you in the first place.”

“No. Tell me what they saw, Jonathan. Of what do you fear them knowing?”

Jonathan shakes his head and Jonah hums a frustrated sound.

* * *

It is the same the next day. And the next.

Jonathan doesn’t know why the repetitive nature of events doesn’t dull the terror of it. It ought to become commonplace, eventually. Dull with its unchanging horror.

Why doesn’t it lead to tired acceptance?

He recalls being terribly squeamish the first time he was asked to set a broken bone, and oh so ill when his first patient died. But the second, the third… like his heart grew a callous and he was able to do what had to be done without emotion.

Jonah’s words of encouragement, however, take less than a day to become monotonous and tiresome.

* * *

_Jonathan is huddled small in bed, trembling beneath Albrecht’s towering form as he suffocates under the weight of his malicious gaze._

_Albrecht is speaking, words he’s heard a hundred times. ‘Leg sie ala zurück! Leg sie ala zurück!’_

_Albrecht’s lips stretch wider and wider as he screams the words. His mouth tears and the skin on his cheek cracks like a fine porcelain heirloom, worn with age. It shatters in its frailty and the pieces splash upon the covers._

_Instead of muscle and bone, Jonathan sees sclera._

_He tries to fight back, or at the least to ward him off, but Jonathan’s limbs are heavy and don’t move as he wishes them to._

Jonathan wakes, still struggling to shelter his body from the fictional assault.

Not for the first time, he longs to rip the blankets from his bed and flee to Jonah’s room. To sleep on the floor, if he must, and beg Jonah – so unaffected by these events, so well educated in matters of demonology – to keep vigil. Just for one night.

But he is not a child and Jonah is not his mother.

He clutches the rosary in his hand, the beads leaving small bruises on his palm.

In the darkness, there is only dread of the watchful things stalking him. Jonathan keeps his eyes tightly closed, denying a visual aid for the thing he knows is lurking above him, glaring down from the ceiling.

Reflections and questions come to mind, as they always do. Enquiries in need of answers that only Jonah can give, though he protests otherwise.

Jonathan thinks, for the first time properly dwells, on the strange safety he feels in Jonah’s presence and how he wishes he wasn’t so alone, now.

But, of course, Jonah’s the only comfort _left._ The only one who knows, or believes. The only one out of reach of these demons that have so plagued their circle of friends. As the days pass, so grows Jonathan’s certainty of it. It is only Jonah that has not yet shapeshifted into a wild ghoul when Jonathan gazes upon him. Has not _watched_ him as a caricature of humanity with wide, glass doll eyes.

It frightens him how secure he feels in the man’s presence when Jonah’s ideology leaves much to be desired.

Foul, yes, yet seeming also to elevate him above the rest.

Stalwart Jonah, never changing. Who has made no secret his aid comes with a price, one that’s constantly drawing him deeper into a mass of staring horrors, consistently throwing him to the wolves with his preaching instance that he has, at least somewhat, a plan.

Mollifying Jonah. Never changing.

Unrepentant Jonah. Never changing.

Jonathan opens his eyes.

So does the darkness.

Round liquid eyes, glimmering like mercury in the pale moonlight that illuminates it from behind.

He leaps from his bed, handicapped by the darkness but finding the door and wrenching it open.

He rushes through the hallway, indecent without his robe, bare feet stumbling loudly on the wooden floor, skidding to a stop in front of Jonah’s overnight apartment.

His mind jumps from one wild conclusion to the next, none staying long enough to imprint a solid conviction. Jonathan dismisses his own confidence just as he had foolishly dismissed a straight path of logic in favor of Jonah’s convoluted spirals.

His hand shakes when he raps on the door, breathing deep and grasping for propriety that he fears is beyond his reach.

His polite knocks devolve into a cacophony of ruthless bangs, calling out Jonah’s name, demanding an answer.

He receives one, though not from the direction he expected.

“Jonathan?” Jonah asks from behind him. Jonathan spins around and sees Jonah walking towards him from the end of the hall. “What are you doing awake? No. Never mind. Of course. Was there something you needed?”

“Yes. Why don’t you change?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re always the same. _Always_. You don’t change.”

Expression full of concern, Jonah quickens his stride and nudges Jonathan aside to unlock his door, ushering him in. “I haven’t the first idea what you mean by that.”

“You do! Yes, you do! Your eyes…” Jonah jerks back when Jonathan reaches for his face. “Such things I see, grotesque things, but never you. Your eyes, they never – why do they never?”

“I don’t know,” Jonah says calmly. Cautiously. “I don’t, Jonathan. To be quite honest, I believed, at least partially, that your anger was precisely because you don’t like what you see when you look upon me. That, in some way, I’ve been haunting you.”

Jonathan shakes his head in disbelief. He spins in a wild circle, searching the room for any evidence of guilt Jonah might have left unattended.

He sees none but, blinded by emotion, steadfastly refuses to admit it proves anything but that Jonah is skilled at keeping his devilry well hidden.

“Where were you?” Jonathan snaps. Jonah opens his mouth to speak and Jonathan adds, “Do not test me, Jonah! The truth.”

“I was sending a missive.”

“To whom?”

“Mordechai Lukas.”

“Why?”

“Jonathan, you _must_ tell me what’s gotten into you?”

“Why won’t you answer?” Jonathan demands, suspicious and prying, grabbing the fabric of Jonah’s lapels and shaking him angrily.

Jonah stares at him with alarm. “He’s financing this expedition of ours. I warned him that I believe it will soon become untenable to continue by train and new transportation will be required.”

Jonathan shakes his head in disagreement. Confusion. His anger lends him strength enough to shove Jonah once, twice, but he’s too greedy with his frustration and Jonah catches his wrists on the third push and slaps him soundly across his face.

Pain blooms across his cheek and Jonathan reels back in shock, staring incredulously at Jonah who is quick to hide an expression of pleased catharsis. “Good lord, your dramatics!”

“How dare you?”

“Because I am tired of ceaseless questions you know I can’t answer. Shall I start feeding you lies, Jonathan? I took you for a man of science who would thank me less for such classless diatribe but if it’s the only way to end your fits of paranoia and endless ranting, then I assure you it is my next course of action.”

Jonathan doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jonah angry before. Certainly not like this, face flushed with temper and fingers gripping painfully tight around his wrist.

He tries to yank himself free but the tussle might as well be between a toddler and a strongman for how fatigued and malnourished Jonathan is. His fight is brief, the energy such unhinged mania requires is unsustainable and he slouches hopelessly. For a time, the only thing holding him up is Jonah’s grip.

“How ugly fears can turn someone,” Jonah sneers.

Jonathan finds his footing, finds his posture, and begs, “ _Please_ , Jonah,” God, he’s so tired. Exhausted. “Please tell me _how_ this is possible. If nothing else it’s clear to me you know, at least more than you’re saying. Please.”

Jonah exhales sharply, irritated but seemingly pacified by Jonathan’s wearied capitulation. He wraps an arm around Jonathan’s waist and ushers him backward into a chair, pushing him down with more force than necessary.

Jonah vanishes momentarily only to return with a strong drink in hand. From the looks of him, he sorely wants to keep it but offers it to Jonathan, steadfastly refusing to move until the glass is accepted. Jonah takes a seat across from him, watching in stony silence.

Jonathan doesn’t know how to break the angry tension but to let the alcohol warm his frazzled nerves.

“What if I can’t make it?” Jonathan asks quietly, trusting Jonah to understand his concern.

“It _is_ a tomb, Jonathan. I’m not in such poor shape that I can’t lug another corpse into it.”

“That’s not funny.”

Jonah shrugs. “You will make it because I want you to, there is nothing more to say. You must take me to Württemberg’s tomb, Jonathan.”

“Surely you know the way.”

“But not through your eyes.”

Every muscle in Jonathan’s body tightens. “What?”

“I apologize for the figure of speech. What I mean to say is…” Jonah looks up at the ceiling, searching for words. “How _do_ I say?”

“Speak candid, if you must.”

Jonah’s lips twitch like he finds the idea terribly unwise and all the more amusing for it.

Jonathan glares down into his drink, ashamed and resentful.

With great caution, Jonah explains, “How you see the world is entirely unique, Jonathan. How the world interacts with you is quite beyond my ability to comprehend, or believe. But it is real to you. If, as you say, it is no manmade psychosis, then I’m very keen to see what happens once you reenter the tomb.”

“You mean to use me as a guinea pig.”

“Not quite. I won’t be leaving you to explore alone.”

Explore.

There isn’t an inch of that dreadful place Jonathan hasn’t memorized from his many, many trips inside.

“For now, try one more day by train. You’re frightened, yes, I can see that, but there’s nothing there that can hurt you.”

“They’re real enough to.”

“They are not. I’m here, Jonathan. At your side. You’re perfectly safe.”

“Is that what you told Albrecht?”

Jonah eyes him sharply, his voice lowering to a hiss, “ _I_ was not with Albrecht.”

“…No,” Jonathan says, regretfully. “No, I suppose you weren’t.”

“And I’ve no plans to betray his confidences by gossiping with you.”

“What should he care? Albrecht is dead.”

“All the more reason to respect his privacy.”

“Your evasiveness frustrates me, Jonah.”

“I’m well aware.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the wake of Jonathan’s breakdown, Jonah seems to thaw. The hysterics leave him greatly thoughtful, quietly meditating on private musings.

Jonathan doesn’t ask. Jonah has always been one to keep his own counsel.

It is enough, he supposes, that Jonah rearranges their bookings from two rooms to one and keeps a nightcap tumbler by the bed.

* * *

Jonah’s ‘one more day. Please, try’ encouragement and ‘I’ll not leave your side’ promises succeed three more days before it becomes much too much and Jonathan finds himself locked in their cheap overnight room keeled over a basin, physically ill from the strain.

Jonah’s hand strokes down his back. Comforting. Kind. Jonathan is too exhausted to pretend it’s a deception.

“You’ve done well,” Jonah says. “To come this far? So very well.”

“But no further,” Jonathan says, turning his head to rest his cheek against the basin’s rim and look up at Jonah from tear damp lashes.

He knows Jonah would prefer to continue by train but he doesn’t let his irritation show. If anything, Jonah seems pleased that he was able to drag this along as far as he has.

Like a parent proud of their child.

It’s humiliating.

Jonah smiles. “Come on,” he says, wrapping a hand around Jonathan’s waist and dragging a limp arm over his shoulder to help him rise.

Jonathan peeks up to see Jonah staring at him and flinches. “Don’t look at me.”

“And where else am I meant to look?”

“I don’t care! Away. Anywhere. Not at me, Jonah. Not at me. I don’t know where your eyes have been.”

Jonah doesn’t respond. How can he? Jonathan knows his words are ridiculous. “If you think me mad, then you’ve every right.”

“Clearly.”

Jonathan scowls, caught between the desire to scold Jonah’s callousness and apologize. He doesn’t get the chance to decide, however, before the weight of a large looming presence fills the room, bearing down upon them with an all-encompassing finality of manifestation. The lesser terrors scamper away like vermin in the shadow of a true predator. Small fears, fearing a greater beast.

Jonathan’s scowl turns into a whimper.

At last. At last it _must_ be the end to this terrible game. The devil come choke him with its power.

But the villain never crests from its overwhelming wave. It hangs above, threatening to crush him but stable.

His muscles foolishly relax as the tension of the moment, seconds, minutes pass without repercussions.

Jonah breathes sigh of relief when Jonathan’s terrified grip loosens.

“Up, then,” Jonah says. “You need whatever rest you can achieve and I… need to brace for a terrible hangover in the morning.” Jonathan glances at the brandy tumbler, their nightcap glasses remaining full beside it.

Jonathan is smart enough to hear the lines, but too cowardly to read between them. He nods agreement and pretends they’d had a rough dinner.

* * *

_Sweat is dripping down his back, sticking his shirt to his skin and dampening his hair flat against his skull. Still, Jonathan picks up a stack of books and heads laboriously back into Württemberg’s tomb._

_The steps descend for hours._

_His legs wobble with each downward stride, his lungs strain from exertion, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t rest._

Put them back.

_And so he shall._

_The light grows dim, grey, black._

_He forgot his lamp._

_The steps are evenly paced and muscle memory tells him where to place his feet. He continues down through the darkness._

_He is not alone. Something is here with him. Something dark and cruel, stalking down the steps before him, moving in synchronicity with his every pace. Close. So near that if he were only to reach out his hand he could touch it. Barely one step ahead._

_But he cannot reach out._

_His arms are full._

_He hears a scream from high up, behind him._

_Albrecht._

_He’s dead._

_Dead._

Put them back.

_He continues into the black._

Jonathan’s eyes shoot open, mind awake and firing, cognizant of the fact that he doesn’t have the luxury of kicking up a fuss with Jonah sleeping beside him, needing his rest.

Bitterly, Jonathan thinks it cannot be easy babysitting a madman.

Jonah is laying on his side, face to face with Jonathan. He doesn’t look a great deal more or less intimidating in structure when he’s asleep. He’s never been a man of hard lines or deep scowls, merely someone with a mind that is ever working. Hunting for paradoxes and the unexplained. These past weeks must be the closest Jonathan has ever seen him come to ill temper. And, yes, he has had his reasons.

Jonah’s eyes flutter sleepily open, like he’s a sixth sense to alert him when someone’s caught him in a vulnerable state. Jonathan smiles in relief at seeing Jonah awake. He doesn’t want to be alone with his nightmares, despite the heavy weight in the room keeping the gremlins in the corner. Away.

He wants to ask, but… either Jonah knows and by asking Jonathan will be forced to confront a dreadful truth, or Jonah does not know and it will only invite further frustration and disappointment.

As disappointed as Jonathan is with himself, overeager to blame someone, anyone, for his troubles. Including the only man actively trying to help.

He remains silent and, eventually, Jonah becomes satisfied that nothing is amiss and his eyes close again.

Jonathan is struck with the sudden need to keep Jonah’s attention, not wanting to be alone in the darkness with his terrible thoughts, or worse, the darkness of his dreams.

He closes the small distance between them a presses an awkward kiss against Jonah’s lips.

Jonah’s brow furrows in bemusement, but he doesn’t open his eyes and doesn’t make a sound. Jonathan is certain Jonah is going to take the action as fleeting and return to sleep.

But why should he fear the solitude when there need not be? Where words fail him action seemingly does not.

With no small amount of bravado he slides his fingers under Jonah’s chin and cautiously tips his head up. With more conviction, he presses his lips firmly against Jonah’s and reaches for the drawstring of Jonah’s pants with trembling urgency, a desperate desire to _connect_ with a someone who isn’t a _something_ ; who doesn’t wish him ill.

This isn’t him, this bravery and daring. Nothing at all like Jonathan Fanshawe, without an ounce of liquid courage to smooth his nerves. Using such carnal actions to distract from the overwhelming hell burying him.

Jonah leans his head back, sliding out of his reach, and catches Jonathan’s wrists, stopping him before he reaches skin. Jonathan freezes in horror at his assumption. His face grows hot with embarrassment, mind stuttering on how to proceed. Should he apologize or take his leave? Turn his back and pretend as if nothing has happened, that nothing was implied? Blame it on psychosis. If he’s adamant enough, Jonah will believe. If Jonathan acts horrified and contrite, he will be granted sympathy.

Jonah opens his eyes and pins him with a stare that pierces straight through to the heart of him.

Jonah doesn’t let go when Jonathan tries to pull back, mortified. He only watches with a gaze that is not so heavy to endure, only uncomfortable. Uncanny. Like Jonah sees more than he lets on. More than most.

Jonathan tries to speak, to fill the silence with anything but the sounds of his panicky breaths, but there’s nothing he can say to justify such advances. All he can do is wait and marvel at how it is seconds can feel like hours.

For him, that is, as Jonathan realizes it is fatigue that’s slowing Jonah’s conclusion.

And then, blessedly, Jonah rests his forehead against Jonathan’s and hushes him. A soft susurrus of breath that fills Jonathan’s trembling nerves with gratitude.

Jonah’s hand slowly follows the line of Jonathan’s arm, rubbing a soothing caress up his skin until reaching between his thighs and finding his half hard cock. Jonah’s fingers are less sure there, more awkward in position and certainty.

It’s strange to see Jonah even slightly out of his depth, but even in the dim light, where it’s difficult to see the intricacies of expressions, Jonathan can sense it. He wonders if Jonah has never… That is to say, if it is new territory for a man whose head is always in books; a man of single minded focus where people are an aftermath, unfortunately occupying his spaces.

It is, of course, none of his business and he would be nothing short of an absolute wanton to question aloud the virtue of a respectable man.

Jonah palms him through the thin cotton of his dressing gown. His fingers rubbing his cock to hardness and curling along the length; teasing pleasure from his body with strokes that are more curious and adapting than naturally intuitive.

Emotion overwhelms him at Jonah’s efforts. He’s _trying_. Here, yes, and elsewhere. Trying to help him as he tried to help Albrecht, though his vocation breeds distrust and his mannerisms bring contempt.

Jonathan hides his face in Jonah’s shoulder, pressing his mouth to his neck, muffling his small, broken noises as he grips Jonah’s arm fiercely.

It’s not what he wants, really. The friction of clothes between them dulling Jonah’s touch and Jonathan thrusts harder into his hand, hips straining and grinding roughly.

Jonah seems to rethink his approach, pushing a knee between Jonathan’s thighs and snaking an arm around his waist to hold him tightly. Jonathan’s breath rushes from him and he clings to the heat of Jonah’s body, trembling when Jonah fists the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, encouraging him to take his pleasure.

He feels foolish and desperate and so very grateful that Jonah is here and awake, stopping him from noticing the looming watcher bearing witness to his desperation. Distracting him into exhaustion.

Jonathan can feel his teeth digging into Jonah’s shoulder and hopes to god he doesn’t break skin as he drapes his leg over Jonah’s hip, rutting against him, selfish and reckless, letting his desperation send him over the edge.

Jonah remains silent as Jonathan struggles to catch his breath. Still and waiting for Jonathan’s hammering pulse to even out, for his breathing to calm. Jonathan begins to wonder if words should be spoken or, more worryingly, if they need to be.

He buries his face into the crook of Jonah’s neck, nuzzling the soft skin; quietly, helplessly, pleading for tolerance.

Jonah’s fingers uncurl their grip on his shirt and rub long, comforting strokes along his back. The tight fear of repercussions knotted in his stomach releases and he melts boneless into the caress.

Jonah has a singular talent for turning silence into ambiance and letting it speak for him. The quietude of the room, the small light of the moon and stars, the faint sound of wind, all lending itself to a lulling aftermath. Free of judgement, full of nocturnal stillness.

Witchcraft, Jonathan thinks as Jonah’s touch becomes softer, slower, until sleep takes him once more and he lays still in the pretzel of Jonathan’s limbs.

Jonathan finds himself more afraid of the nightmares than the darkness and so stays awake, waiting for the sun to rise.

* * *

They don’t talk about it.

What should be an awkward morning after, dancing around the subject, is instead a day just like any other with the small difference of Jonah’s prophesy having indeed come true; he is pale and worn, complaining briefly of hunger, though breakfast and a strong coffee do little to bring color his cheeks.

Carriage rides are a headache’s best friend, but Jonah shrugs off the inconvenience, saying the destination is worth the bother.

For Jonathan, the small carriage with the blinds closed and the hood up is a relief. He doesn’t find himself quite as ill as they travel from tavern to tavern.

But he does find himself plagued with thoughts of… other matters.

He _wants_ to talk about it, but Jonah’s demeanor of indifference stills his tongue.

Jonah seems convincingly undisturbed towards the consequences of such a significant step in their already rocky acquaintance and even less interested in the legality of it. There’s a bruise on Jonah’s neck, a perfect imprint of teeth that he’s done nothing to hide. They aren’t travelling with the public but for proprieties sake, if nothing else, really.

But of course Jonah sees it as little but a short-lived distraction, not worth a footnote in their travels; his mind incapable of understanding that sex could be important enough to sidetrack a quest.

Funny that Jonah’s utter disregard for implications, just days passed, concerned him greatly while now he finds it a relief.

He does his best to compartmentalize the night, knowing that Jonah would be unimpressed with his doubts.

* * *

They don’t talk about it and the next night brings with it a new and unfamiliar stress.

For all that the blankets look inviting Jonathan hesitates getting into bed, worried that Jonah will think him a predator.

It is both a relief and a frustration that he’s able to see the moment Jonah realizes the root of his reluctance.

How is it that such a clever mind can be so slow that it readily overlooks the obvious?

“You should question your fear,” Jonah says quietly, tugging Jonathan’s tired body into the bed and handing him a nightcap. “Where the strength of it comes from.”

“Pardon?”

Jonah turns away, preparing himself for bed. He shakes his head. “A mere suggestion,” he says curtly, “of course.”

“You needn’t protect me from harsh truths,” Jonathan says, sitting up on his elbows. “If you’re speaking from a place of knowledge, I would like to know.” He speaks patiently, calmly, and without accusation.

Jonah, it seems, only knows how to respond to rebuke with evasive neutrality.

This time, however, he chooses not to reply at all, slipping down into his nightwear.

Jonathan clenches his glass with a strength he fears will break it.

“Jonah?”

“No. There’s nothing to tell.”

“What’s weighing so heavily on you, then?”

Jonah sits on the edge of the bed, facing away, back to Jonathan.

He tries not to find it irritating, knowing Jonah can’t possibly feel the true fatigue he himself is feeling – has been feeling – for it is unfair to grade on a curve. It has been a long day and… Jonathan knows he’s been quite an exhausting travel companion.

“Responsibility,” Jonah says, “for my part in your misfortune.”

“You said it wasn’t your fault,” Jonathan reminds, tentative and nervous to hear an admission he’d so once wanted Jonah to confess.

Jonah hums. “And that I stole the books.”

“Yes. And I won’t be the one to tell you, you oughtn’t feel guilt for such a reprehensible action.”

“Guilt?”

“But it is forgivable, Jonah. If your reasoning was as you said.”

Jonah’s voice takes on a tetchy, irritated tone as he turns his head halfway to glare. “It was.”

“And your reason for requesting I visit Albrecht? Your worry for his wellbeing?”

Jonah nods confirmation and Jonathan feels a wash of relief, like it is his own burden being lifted from his shoulders, to hear no terrible confession from Jonah.

Jonathan stretches across the bed, laying his hand on Jonah’s arm. “I have, perhaps, been unfair to you. It is easy to blame a man who holds his secrets as close as you do and surrounds himself with the macabre.” Jonathan says with gravity. Then, in a lighter voice longing to ease the tension, continues, “You said my condemnation means little to you?”

Jonah chuckles, turning and watching him with soft, appreciative eyes.

It’s not his words that bother Jonah. Jonathan knows that as fact because he’s seen the emotional toll trauma can take not only on a patient but on the novice professional overseeing the case.

And Jonah isn’t in the metaphorical quandary of _taking his work home with him_ , but living in close quarters with it, for weeks now. Seeing the results of suffering that he played a part in engineering.

Eventually, he will learn to compartmentalize. Truly, Jonah has not made such a mess of things; he has kept his head and kept their forward momentum.

Kept his dry humor as well. “You misinterpreted me then, my dear Jonathan. I had meant to say that I cared not at all.”

“But you do now?”

Jonah doesn’t reply, leaning forward and placing a kiss on Jonathan’s brow before slipping under the covers. “Try to sleep. Poor rest is better than none.”

* * *

Jonah finds a new language to communicate in, one which better suits the ambiguity of his personality while eliminating the frustration of it.

Jonah takes his hand when Jonathan begins to fidget instead of offering to buy a stronger drink. Instead of critical words at Jonathan’s slow stride, he rests a guiding hand on his back.

He lays down beside him at night, warm and close without a flicker of rebuke.

Protective and yielding.

Jonah pulls it off with such a natural grace that it takes days before Jonathan consciously notices the change in their interactions. Specifically, not until Jonathan finds himself watching Jonah arguing with the inn’s staff.

Their path doesn’t always take them through cityscapes and well stocked accommodations, where a man of middling status can be treated as royalty with enough bravado. Sometimes they encounter people less than impressed when Jonah wants room service and off menu broths for his pale friend.

Jonah _must_ have a bag of notes for the money he’s throwing around, like loans bring consequences only to lesser men.

“Are the Lukas’s truly financing our trip?” Jonathan asks, dipping bread into his soup and taking a small bite. He’s no appetite to speak of but the ludicrous amount Jonah paid for the meal presses him to finish the bowl.

Jonah hums confirmation.

“I have heard unfavorable things about them.”

Jonah sighs, frustrated.

Jonathan winces, aware that to begin the conversation with complaints and condemnations is poor repayment for the effort Jonah’s been expending. Shame colors his cheeks. “I suspect such gossip is the curse of the low standing when they are wealthy,” Jonathan says. Jonah raises his eyebrows, seeming surprised that he’s relented. “Barnabas spoke well enough of them.”

Jonah trades his water for a post brandy drink, offering to top off Jonathan’s glass before filling his own.

Jonah swirls the glass in his hand, thoughtfully watching the amber liquid before finding a way to continue the conversation. “Barnabas?”

“Ah. I assumed you knew him. You know of so many others,” for Jonah’s circle of friends has always been far extending. “He’s a long acquaintance of mine. Barnabas Bennet. Poor fellow ran into a bit of trouble that Mordechai Lukas helped him out of. Bought him out of, really. I shall have to introduce you, though I’m afraid he’s become somewhat of a recluse these days. It has to have been… Oh, coming upon a decade that I last heard from him.” Jonathan sits back, surprised at himself for failing to notice Barnabas’s extended absence. Like he cut all ties and fell off the edge of the world.

“You ought write to him, then.” Jonah says, savoring a mouthful of brandy before reaching across the table for the decanter. Jonathan eyes it unhappily but doesn’t feel it his place to chide Jonah’s indulgence. “Solitude can be comforting in moderation, of course, but frighteningly lonely.”

“You speak from experience?”

“I speak from observation,” Jonah says with finality, a sharp note in his tone that is almost… resentful.

He wonders if it’s paranoia or a legitimate worry that should be addressed.

And then banishes the thought. It is merely thoughts of Albrecht that weigh down Jonah's shoulders.

* * *

Despite Jonah’s determination to be a comforting presence, Jonathan can see the conscious effort being put into it. The subtle clues a passing acquaintance would never notice but seem so brazen to him now.

The pauses in conversation when Jonah discards an immediate response, the hand gestures to downplay words he wants overlooked and the smiles after performing actions he wants emphasized.

It is as though a light has been shined upon Jonah and it is easier now to see the superficial camouflage he shrouds himself in to make others see him as a benign academic, hopeless in his pursuits, but sincere.

Jonathan doesn’t think it evil or cruel in and of itself. Flattering, he supposes, for the constant awareness Jonah has put into their interactions. Mostly, what he sees is an unfortunate disconnect between Jonah and world. He is once removed and with little desire to fix the parts of himself that do not have an instinctive connection with people.

It reminds Jonathan of gossipmongers and their tales of academics gone mad. Kernels of truth, naturally, but often times the so called mad scientist is nothing more than a man ahead of his time. Lunacy attributed where instead passion resides; the new science of transplantations or unexpected medical advancements.

Of course, Jonah is not a scientist but an occult philosopher, though with the same amount of hubris, and Jonathan finds it just as dangerous as a man poorly mixing chemicals.

For all that Jonah tries, for all that he wants to be kinder… Jonah Magnus is still Jonah Magnus.

And Jonathan loathes the stark reminder of it when he wakes up in the carriage (heart pounding from terrifying dreams and face wet from crying in his sleep) draped childishly over him with his head resting in the crook of his shoulder and Jonah’s fingers carding through his hair.

Always, Jonah leaves him to his nightmares.

Always.

Embarrassment colors his cheeks but it’s a comforting sensation when his brain is still firing in panic at the lingering effects of his ever present visions.

He notices at once the lack of jostling movement from the rocking carriage and he braces himself for nightmares to descend upon him.

The seconds pass and no new terror assails him. Cautiously he sits up, rubbing his hands over his face before adjusting his collar and cuffs; eyes downcast, worried at what horrors await out that small window.

“Ah,” Jonah says, “you’re awake.”

Jonathan takes a deep, trembling breath. His throat is tight. “Yes. Why have we stopped?”

“We’re here,” Jonah says with breathless relish, expression bright with adventure.

“You should have woken me, Jonah! How long?”

He hums. “Far too late for sight-seeing, and the driver didn’t mind.”

“ _I_ mind.”

Jonah smiles, pacifying and gentle, and Jonathan sighs. Why be surprised? Jonah never wakes him when he cries out in terror. When he grows damp with sweat, tossing and turning.

‘Poor rest is better than none,’ Jonah says, but…

Jonathan chuckles cheerlessly in pure disparity of himself. What ‘gut instinct’ can he claim for interpreting Jonah’s actions? What ‘innate intuition’ has he, really, when he can hardly focus his own mind to distinguish dreams from reality?

Jonah’s fingers card one last time through his hair before bundling them both up and out of the carriage. Sore and tired, he leaves the particularities of obtaining a room to Jonah as he dwells on the finality of the drive. Soon, perhaps even tomorrow, they will be hiking through the woods to Württemberg’s tomb.

Though it is yet to be determined what that means. What that might, indeed, _not_ mean.

Jonah makes no secret of the fact he’s buzzing with anticipation and immediately begins writing an account of their journey when they’re settled in for the night. He’s gone so far as to orchestrate an environment of pointed, if silent, rebuke that Jonathan should likewise be documenting his own experiences.

It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than an awkward atmosphere to get his hands to wrap around a pen. Instead, he watches the surety of Jonah’s scrawl as his pen moves across the page without doubt to word choice or pause to reflect. A continuous, unflinching account that only takes him a half hour to complete. Jonah sighs when he’s finished, leans back and looks impossibly calm.

Jonathan remembers the clench and release of it and fantasizes about ripping the paper from Jonah’s hands and physically shaking sense into him.

But what would be the point? Jonah would placate him in the moment and rewrite the statement when his back was turned.

“You’re a hundred miles away,” Jonathan says to fill the silence with anything but eyes. “What are you thinking of?”

“Balance.”

“Of what?”

Jonah’s brow furrows, like Jonathan has presented him with a trick question. “The unknowable, I suppose. Nature.”

“Ah, you’re at that stage of the evening, then.”

Jonah chuckles. “Dreadful time of day. If I could do away with it entirely…”

“Would you know, Jonah, but I recently read a fascinating, if somewhat whimsical, essay on the nature of balance.” Jonathan says, thinking perhaps it is in fact that exact article Jonah is dwelling upon. He wracks his mind for the name of its author. However, by the time he recalls that Robert Smirke penned it Jonah is already responding.

Retaliating, really.

“I’m sure you did,” Jonah grumbles darkly and Jonathan frowns. Jonah clears his throat and amends, “I mean to say, many did. It made quite a splash amongst the… _analytically minded_ of the community.”

Jonah speaks with such scathing reproach that Jonathan says, “Ah. It isn’t the article you object to, but its reception?”

“Both, perhaps. Robert has a great respect for his own mind, and little for the potential of others. He goes too far when watering down his research for laymen. I would say he should stick to architecture if it wouldn’t pain me to see a clever mind silenced.”

“Hmm. But, it is easier to admire the convoluted beauty of a building than the convoluted structure of new ideas.”

“New ideas? I would _scarcely_ call _balance_ a new–” Jonah cuts himself off, as though this is a rant he’s likely to get lost in and visibly shrugs it off. “I suppose,” he relents grumpily instead.

“Still. A fascinating man. Perhaps you could introduce us?”

“Our circles rarely overlap,” Jonah demurs with the suggestion of finality in his answer, which is enough unlike Jonah that Jonathan frowns. He’s never known the man to be reticent about arranging introductions. “We should turn in. I cannot promise to sleep on such an auspicious night, but there’s little else to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

They set out at first light with little sleep found between them.

Lugging a library of books from Albrecht’s house through the black forest and into Württemberg’s tomb for hours and hours all day means Jonathan will never forget the route, try as he might.

They walk in silence through the dirt roads until their route branches off into the pathless woods with only the crunch of dried leaves and twigs to break the quiet.

The closer they get to their destination, the harder it becomes to compartmentalize Jonah’s involvement in Albrecht’s death. It’s easier to see the kid gloves Jonah has been handling him with when his eyes are alight, trekking through the wilderness like the trip has taken no toll on his energy. Indeed, has given him a new breath of life.

For Jonathan, there is still small amusements to be found as it becomes quickly apparent to him that Jonah is not made for adventurous hikes nor, in fact, the outdoors in general.

It is now his turn to stay close to Jonah’s side, ready to grab him when he trips for the third time.

He catches Jonah’s elbow, steadying him. “I’m far from a skilled woodsman, Jonah, but _honestly_.” Jonathan says, exasperated that a grown man should fail at what essentially boils down to ‘one foot in front of the other.’ “Watch your step.”

“What’s to watch?” Jonah scowls. “You can hardly see half a pace for the–” he kicks the overgrown grass and a large spider surges above the brush, dashing quickly away.

Jonah’s eyes widen in surprise and he gestures violently to the ground as though to say ‘see! Did you see that! My point proven?!’

“We’ll be there soon,” Jonathan soothes.

“Not a moment too soon.”

Jonathan doesn’t share the sentiment. Though there are many hidden creatures in the woods with many prying eyes that he’d rather be hidden from, keeping an eye out for Jonah’s poor footing has been a decent distraction.

Jonah grows visibly more tense the closer they get and a small frown forms on his lips as time passes. He becomes more cautious and Jonathan asks, “You feel it too, then? Is the malevolence the tomb itself, do you suppose? Or the forest?”

“Neither.”

Jonathan looks dubiously at him.

“Ignore it.”

“As I’ve been endeavoring to. But if you can sense it as well. …what does it feel like, Jonah? To you?”

“Being watched?”

“Everyone knows what it is to be watched. Being stalked.”

“Ah. Resentment, I suppose.” Jonah glances wryly at him, “jealousy.”

“You are not so large a man I couldn’t black your eyes, Jonah Magnus.”

Jonah smiles and shrugs.

“It’s terrible,” Jonathan corrects him. “Absolutely terrible, feeling constantly followed.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry yourself on that front, Jonathan. You feel as though you are being followed because we are being followed.”

“What!”

But, once more Jonah advises, “Ignore it.”

“I will not,” Jonathan snaps, turning in a circle to find the intruder Jonah sees fit to overlook. In the middle of abandoned paths, lost to the forest, anything could be hunting them! “Have you brought a weapon?”

Jonah chuckles. “It’s not brigands in the forest.”

“What then?”

“According to Albrecht, men with no eyes who vanish at will.”

“And you believed him?”

“In as much as I believe your tales of apparitions.” Jonathan scoffs and Jonah laughs again. “You ask me to believe paintings might turn their heads to better watch, yet dismiss Albrecht’s claims? Ah, well. Lonely roads become traveled, hidden tombs, seen. And alliances change over time,” he says, in that maddeningly cryptic tone of his.

Jonathan has the distinct impression Jonah is not talking to him and he asks, “What does that mean?”

“It means, ignore it.”

Jonathan growls in irritation, resolving to throw Jonah straight into the first sign of trouble and dash off.

Jonah reaches his hand out, grabbing Jonathan and tugging him closer. “There, you see, if anything has plans on abducting you, it will now be forced to take me as well.”

“You think yourself stronger than a demon?”

“I don’t think it to be a demon at all. A monster, perhaps, but those are not so invincible.”

“No one is, Jonah.”

“As you say,” he replies with specific, pointed emphasis.

Incorrigible.

Whether by Jonah’s words or his embrace, Jonathan does feel somewhat comforted. He endeavors to simply spend the remainder of their trek keeping Jonah from spraining his ankle in the middle of nowhere or gnashing his head upon something sharp.

* * *

Jonah walks a straight path through the cemetery, eyes on Württemberg’s tomb, uncaring for the graves he trods upon.

Disrespectful, though Jonathan can’t help but side eye the markings, wondering if it is poor luck that saw these people buried in this evil place or if, in life, they truly belonged.

Jonah lets go of his hand and begins fishing through his bag as they come to a stop before the mausoleum, humble in comparison to the vastness that lies beneath.

Jonathan eyes Jonah’s satchel, far too large for the meager possessions holding it. He scowls. At the least Jonah could attempt to hid his ulterior motives.

He retrieves a lantern from the bag, but when he hands it over and starts on a second light Jonathan interrupts. “Surely we need only one?” only one and it forces Jonah to stay close or risk becoming lost in the darkness.

“And if yours goes out? If it’s dropped?”

“Then we can—”

“It’s always best to be safe, Jonathan. I’m not in the habit of taking chances.”

“With your own life, you mean.”

“Then how lucky you are to be with me,” Jonah says with a maddeningly charming grin.

Jonathan sighs, unhappily grumbling, “Lucky,” and allows Jonah to light the second.

Jonathan only wishes that Jonah’s enthusiasm was contagious as a cold sweat creeps down his back. They enter the tomb and begin their descent down the steps, gray stone walls trapping them in. The mausoleum is the same as in his dreams. A perfect recollection. Not a single dreamlike distortion nor subconscious liberty taken. Disconcerting. Chilling. His steps slow and he pulls the lamp close to his chest.

How could he have failed to disregard the atmosphere of pure evil in this place those many months ago…

Jonah’s eyes are bright with wonder, trailing his hand along the wall as they descend deeper into the tomb, like he’s feeling for more than stone. For more than cold brick and earth.

His micro movements make it hard for Jonathan to forget his questioning of Jonah’s true allegiance; the morals he so readily casts aside as useless.

Jonah explores the tomb with the same lack of self preservation that Jonathan saw in Albrecht; hypnotized by this dreary place, leading them both to perform foolish acts.

Jonah runs his fingers over the lines of books, freshly bound and costing a small fortune. Nothing more than blank journals, incongruently miscategorized.

It wasn’t fair. None of it – none of _this_ – is fair.

Jonah hmm’s and huh’s, starting at the outer edges and working his way inwards and downwards.

Everything he touches, every glance and every step, appears an act of reverence that makes Jonathan’s skin crawl.

Jonah leans down to inspect the engravings and his eyes glimmer strangely in the flickering light of his lamp. Those eyes… without proof, without reason, Jonathan _knows_ Jonah is seeing much more than he’s letting on.

Jonah clucks his tongue, pulls his coat closer to his body and asks, “How do you feel, standing in this place?”

“Claustrophobic? Wary.”

“Complaints, then. How stunningly original of you, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ignores him, searching for the adjective that might cast light on his understanding. “A push and pull as if… being watched by a hundred eyes, but none knowing where to look.”

“Pardon?”

“Chaotic.”

“Yes. You used that word once before.”

And Jonah doubted its accuracy then, but seems to regard it with more weight than before.

Jonathan doesn’t question it. Jonah’s thoughts look to be miles away, leaping to conclusions.

Jonah is an ill fit for practical excavation. Even Jonathan, who doesn’t know the first thing about true exploration, sees that he is glossing over antique finds. Artefacts poorly visible but present. Marks physically left that speak of historical activity. Nooks and crannies peeking out from underneath centuries of dirt and nonexistent upkeep. Blocks ill fitting, torn chunks of wall at precise angles that Jonathan, were he here for study, would think of great significance.

Instead, Jonah’s attention flicks from glyph to glyph following a path Jonathan can’t make sense of, but seems to be intentional.

“Well?” Jonathan asks. “What great understanding have you found that we could not?”

“More questions, unfortunately.” Jonah admits. “An archive of knowledge. Preservation. How does it differ, really, from my institute?”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline in absolute incredulity. “ _What?_ ”

“What? No, never mind. It is you who should be talking to me,” Jonah says, the very picture of a psychiatry. “Tell me your point of view, Jonathan. What do you see? What do you remember?

“What’s there to say, that I haven’t spoken of time and time again?”

“The words will come, you need only begin.”

Jonathan frowns but Jonah nods encouragement.

He stumbles over the first sentence, gains confidence upon the second and then feels it again, that _presence_ holding his hand, inspiring his prose, reminding him of details lost to his subconscious.

There’s vitriol in his voice, words spoken guttural from the back of his throat. German interspersing with his native English. A dual sensation comes over him. There and here, then and now. He loses track of where his emotions blur into each other. Many, conflicting yet coherent.

The wave of contentment that washes over him is the same, the very same, he had felt upon writing his statements to Jonah.

May god forgive him, but he no longer believes faith can save him. Not on this mortal plain.

When he’s finished Jonah gives a delayed, “Thank you” and it is not Jonathan’s imagination that Jonah looks healthier than he has in days.

He shivers.

“Now,” Jonah says, “say it again.”

Jonathan wracks his brain for what part Jonah could be referring to but already the precision of his words is fading.

He shrugs, which appears to solidify a conclusion Jonah’s found rather than frustrate him.

“Chaotic,” Jonah corroborates. “I won’t lie and say it isn’t a disappointment, but…”

“Disappointment! Jonah, would that you could hear yourself these days!”

Jonah ignores him, turning in a circle, eyeing the tomb critically.

“There’s a guardian outside…” Jonah says, and Jonathan startles, glancing back to the exit for fear the words are a warning. He sees no one. Jonah continues, “But not inside. Albrecht was not stopped from removing the books. Why? Because… Albrecht was not stopped because…” Jonah goes still, a light of understanding filling his eyes, which suddenly seem much sharper. Older. “Because the books belonged to him,” Jonah whispers, “to do with as he pleased.”

Jonathan scowls. “Such was the arrogance that got us into this mess.”

“Nonsense. We are standing in a library,” Jonah says, which Jonathan finds to be a dubious comparison, at best. “What does a library need?”

“Funding?”

“…and a librarian. Someone to take care of, stand guard over, its collection. A job with which Albrecht was tasked and subsequently failed to do.”

“Thanks in no small part to your actions. Are you saying, then, that if Albrecht had followed the books, he’d still be alive?”

“It’s a theory, but it holds true.”

“How in the world does that hold true, Jonah?”

Jonah trails his hands along the row of blank tomes. “I thought the books would bring understanding. Wisdom, as you said. But they are campfire tales. Genuine, yes, but only stories.” Jonah chuckles. “I was disappointed. Albrecht wasn’t… He cared. He cared so very much. Felt for _them_ , or felt _for_ them, as it were.”

Jonathan blinks, trying to puzzle together Jonah’s words. “Then if the books were taken from you? What then?”

“I’d be surprised if anything at all happened. I have claimed the books. They have not claimed me.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

“I am. There is an impossible logic to Albrecht’s death, and your condition, that I am beginning to understand. How easy it is to try and put logic and reasoning into these beings. To make them see as we see.”

Yes. Jonathan feels it too, pulling muscles to stretch his arms but still just out of reach.

“Then you’ve learned how to stop it? How to save me?”

Jonah stumbles over a response, so out of place for a man with such precise words. Likely unaccustomed to being called out in the middle of a revelation. Used to being indulged.

And then Jonah stills and looks at him, _really_ looks. A creeping dread, quite separate from the atmosphere of the tomb, settles over Jonathan.

Jonah tries to speak, jaw working over words that he doesn’t say.

It takes Jonathan longer than it should to decipher the meaning of his silent expression, but from there, it takes little for the pieces to fit together.

The sad self-reproach, quietly gaining traction inside Jonah these past days, that Jonathan had so readily attributed to his theft. To his _helplessness_.

The apologetic accommodations and soft touches.

“…You already knew.” The quiet reflections. The pensive withdrawal. “You did know, didn’t you?”

Jonah’s guilt.

“Jonathan,” Jonah beings, regaining his exasperated tone.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare. When did you figure it out? My god, have you _always_ known?”

“What you’re asking is a complicated question.”

“It is not!”

“It is, and _here_ ,” Jonah says, with an expansive gesture indicating the tomb, “is not the place for this discussion.”

Jonathan laughs at the mere suggestion Jonah is reminding him they’re not alone. Never alone, always with specters bearing witness to his lowest moments; his slightest doubts.

But in regards to Jonah, it scarcely matters.

His question has been answered; Jonah’s evasiveness is more than enough confirmation.

All this time.

All this time, he’s known.

Jonathan shakes his head and steps back. A rush of vertigo assaults him. The walls are close, so sickeningly close, closing in around him.

Jonah doesn’t stop him from leaving the tomb and he doesn’t follow.

* * *

In his room, curled in on himself, Jonathan listens to the echoing sound his eyelids make when he blinks. The soft drum beat when they close, the rustle of eyelashes.

He doesn’t question the absurdity of it, only braces himself for the thud when his eyes become dry and the physical pain of keeping them open forces him to squeeze them shut.

Shut them unto the certainty that, in the self made darkness surrounding him, there’s a demon crouched ahead, reaching out to touch.

It is well past supper before Jonah has the audacity to face him again, finding him pressed against the bed’s headboard, watching the candle flame blink from the bedside table.

Jonah sets down a glass in offering. It’s filled high with brandy like he knows their conversation will take something stronger than a polite, gentleman’s drink.

Jonathan reaches for the glass and asks, “When did you change your mind?”

“Pardon?”

Jonathan chuckles darkly and shakes his head. As though there could be any confusion as to the question.

Jonah’s admission was no grandstanding reveal. He didn’t play the part of a mastermind divulging the truth. Jonah had simply been startled by a question, one which he had surely known was going to be asked. Caught in that moment he hadn’t been able to force the excuses and lies – words that must have been there, rehearsed for weeks – out of his mouth.

Because Jonah had changed his mind and had failed to rewrite the script.

Jonathan wraps his hands around the offered glass and drinks it like water, savoring the alcoholic burn. He hopes it works fast to numb the hurt and hatred.

“Was it guilt, Jonah?” as simple as having seen the effects of his actions first hand. Living for weeks with the constant reminder that everything was _all his fault._ “Could it be you indeed have a conscience?”

Jonah sits across from him, tentatively and in preparation that his presumption might cause a scene. “I would not put it in so many words.”

“Then what words, Jonah? What gives you the right, the _arrogance_ , to say nothing, knowing I trusted–” No. No, that’s not quite right. “After you made me trust you?” he growls.

Jonah looks uneasily down at his hands, brow furrowed in upset. Slowly, as though working through a confession he’s aware is owed, he says, “There was no one thing that changed my mind. I suppose… I would rather you continue to be useful.”

Jonathan has to swallow down pure rage at Jonah’s admission. He brings the glass to his lips and drinks down the last of brandy in one large, fed up gulp.

“ _Useful?_ I shudder to think what task you plan to assign me next, then. Well, Jonah, I’ll tell you now, in no uncertain terms, I would rather die than be of any more _use_ to you.”

“That may very well be your fate.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Jonah sighs. “I don’t wish any ill on you, Jonathan. I never have.”

No, Jonathan concedes. He doubts Jonah had given his sad state much consideration at all.

“Then what do you get out of this, Jonah? Tell me, at least, that you derived some satisfaction from the experience?”

“No.”

Jonathan chuckles. No. Of course not.

“I thought your guidance would help me understand what had gone so terribly wrong. What misstep I took.”

“And you did.”

“Yes, although… In hindsight, I suppose your presence was not strictly needed. I regret to think I caused you a great deal of unnecessary pain.”

Jonathan brings the glass back to his lips but scowls to find the cup dry.

“Well then, Jonah? Have you any plans to tell me now, or…?”

Jonah looks dubiously at his empty glass, frowning. “I’m concerned about your reaction.”

As well he should be.

“Tell me regardless.”

“I wanted to know,” Jonah admits under Jonathan’s withering glare. “I had doubts, many doubts. Your torment, or rather the manner in which it presents itself, is unusual. Compounded with my own failures at the institute… I _knew_ Albrecht had missed something; neglected some vital piece of information. I thought you, in your outlier misfortune, could put it together.”

“Put what together?”

“The things I could not. But you couldn’t see the forest for the trees, and I could see nothing else.”

Jonathan raises his eyes to scowl and his vision whorls for a startling moment before settling to focus on Jonah. “But you do now?”

“Oh, Jonathan… If I could have lessened your suffering, I would have. But…” Jonah sighs and spreads his hands in a gesture of contrition.

But he didn’t.

Jonathan’s head feels light and simple. He finds himself struggling to keep up with Jonah’s appalling confession; the confirmation of truths he’d previously believed. Truths that he’d been convinced were far fetched conspiracy theories.

His heart hurts.

“I trusted you.”

“And I need you to trust me just a small while longer,” Jonah says, and though he sits directly before him, his voice is miles away. A soft echo of what it should be. “I do know what this thing stalking you wants and I know how you might appease it.”

Jonathan’s throat is numb and the discomfort of it makes him cough. He tries to reply, though with what words he doesn’t know, but his tongue is heavy in his dry mouth and refuses to let him speak.

Jonathan’s lids are heavy and he can see his eyelashes blocking Jonah from view. When the world goes dark he fears the demons have taken his sight.

A pitiful, unhappy rumble vibrates in his chest and a moment later Jonah is once again in front of him, watching.

Jonah stands slowly, blurring in and out of focus. Duplicates sway and distort as he walks nearer and Jonathan loses track of which Jonah Magnus is the original Jonah Magnus when he wraps his arms around Jonathan’s waist and pulls him to his feet.

“Quiet now,” Jonah says, though Jonathan hasn’t made a sound. He’s so close. Smothering. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.” And he does, supporting Jonathan’s body and helping him to walk and walk and walk on unsteady legs that utterly refuse to coordinate a straight line.

He melts into Jonah’s warmth, wrapped sure and firm around him, losing both time and place, floating in a haze wheresoever Jonah leads.

Jonah’s lips move out of sync with his words, his voice rushing to catch up with the movement of his mouth. Like witchcraft, Jonah’s voice rings clear in his mind and miles away at once. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you can hate me with a clear head.”

He wants to ask _how_. He tries, can taste the words on his tongue… He thinks he should have succeeded, but he doesn’t hear the sound of his own voice nor Jonah’s response.

There’s a candle, watching him with fiery pupils, blinking in flickers of burning intent. He is pulled ever closer to the sentient flame that longs to devour him, his body lowered until he is sat eye level with it. The heat makes his eyes water and he bows his head to see a wooden surface.

A table.

It lurches away from him and he fumbles to catch it, hands slamming awkwardly on the wood only to find it hasn’t moved.

His vision swims.

Jonah’s hands are in his hair again. The familiar cadence of his fingers brushing, soothing, touching, tugging at the ends before returning to his scalp.

“Listen, Jonathan. Just listen,” Jonah says, his voice clear and intense. His words saturating the room with severe clarity. “Think back. Remember your teachings, Jonathan. All your years of study. Endless classes, fascinating seminars. The books you’ve read, the ones you’ve memorized. All those years of devouring knowledge, language, medicine, travel.”

Jonathan remembers. Fond memories. A pleasant chapter of his life. He misses it, often. Young and curious.

“Writing your articles, editing essays,” Jonah laughs, a harsh breath of air puffing in his ear, closer than Jonathan expects for how light and hypnotizing Jonah’s voice is. “That ridiculous letter you sent me. Do you remember it? Remember now, Jonathan. How you _had_ to share your experiences, _had_ to tell me all about your findings. You did, didn’t you? Had to share with someone who’d believe what you knew to be true.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Even when you knew the surest way to hurt me would be simply refusing to document your findings. All you could do was bookend ugly words in your missive, because you so needed to give me exactly what I wanted. You needed someone to know your grand revelation.”

There’s something in Jonathan’s hand, his fingers are curled around the object and forced to hold it tight.

Long.

Thin.

A pen.

“You don’t care who the villain is. Me for my subterfuge, Albrecht for his naivety, yourself for your failures. No, you want a preserved record, just as you did all those op-eds to prove your contemporaries wrong. You wanted the truth archived, with me. Didn’t you? Jonathan? Don’t you? You want that truth, protected.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” Jonah slips around, under him, pushing his hand, wrapped warm around his wrist. “Then write to me again. Prove it.”

He blinks and a sheet of paper is slide in front of him, laid so innocuously and deceivingly benign. He whimpers at the idea of writing another statement for Jonah.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Jonathan. Remember all your curiosity, all your passion, and sign your name… right… here… good. Good. You’ve done so well.”

Jonathan can feel his dreadful nausea sluicing off him like dirt and muck in a bath. A heavy weight lifting off of him and a hope of new beginnings.

He looks at the candle, flickering with pleasant warmth before him.

Firelight to see by.

Firelight to calm him.

Firelight and _peace_.

The chronic pain of constant tension, constant fear, melts away, leaving him boneless and exhausted with the freedom of it all.

Jonathan’s throat feels tight. His cheeks are damp.

He’s crying.

He tries to vocalize the utter ambrosia of it but before he can find his words he is falling. Falling. Floating, from an impossible height. Something soft and supple catches his weight and his body sinks down into the pliable heaven of it.

He closes his eyes, unafraid of the terror sleep will bring for he cannot feel the ever present fight or flight that has so characterized his existence.

Jonathan feels a press against his lips that stays for a very long time, lingering and firm. When he opens his mouth to it, the pressure drifts away and Jonah says, “Rest now. I promise, tomorrow will be a new day.”

* * *

As a physician, Jonathan knows sometimes there is nothing to be done for a malady than to sleep it off. Certainly he’s had plenty of patients come to him thinking medicine is required for just a simple common cold. Even so there’s nothing that could have convinced him the same treatment an uneducated commoner might give to a child would likewise be enough to cure _him_.

Jonathan sinks so deeply into a dreamless slumber that he sleeps straight through the night and into the next day. He wakes well after dinner, his only complaint being a soreness in his back, protesting his slothfulness.

There are no terrible watchers bearing down on him, no invisible ghouls lurking in the corners nor weighty specters longing to criticize his every action.

He’s so accustomed to the painful toll of being smothered under observation that the lack of it is more than a relief but heaven sent.

He feels stalwart; strong as a hero bolstered to take on hell itself. So much so that it takes him quite some time to catalogue himself, meditating on the grandness of being _alone_ with his thoughts, before he realizes that what he’s feeling is not the glorious euphoria of heroic strength nor a sainthood blessing from the lord himself; it is _normalcy._

If it be faith at all, it is in the renewed confidence for the magnitude of human endurance.

He’d forgotten what it was to be Jonathan Fanshawe, free of intervention.

But if he needed further proof it is in the roiling of his stomach when he stretches and makes to rise. A terrible pain spikes through his head and vertigo flips his stomach. He leans over the side of the bed, retching.

He groans, recognizing the disgusting morning after nausea of a long night drinking.

He surely makes a pitiful sight, but humiliating himself before Jonah is so old hat as to be commonplace. He yells for Jonah, demanding his attendance, wincing as the croaked sound of a parched mouth scratches his throat.

No response.

He sighs, cautiously slouching against the headboard and coming face to face with a pitcher of water left on the side table.

At least Jonah is still cognizant of smaller mercies.

He rinses out his mouth with the first cupful, lambasting himself for his foolishness, before swallowing mouthful after mouthful, alleviating his dry, cottonmouth.

Slowly, yesterdays revelations begin to return: the tomb, the conflict, Jonah’s confession and his reaction.

The glass Jonah had set in front of him, innocuous for the many he’s purchased throughout their trip.

A chill that has nothing to do with Schwarzwald’s cold nights engulfs him and he shivers.

He tries again to call for Jonah but continues to be met with silence.

He forces himself carefully to his feet, staggering through the room.

It doesn’t take long to realize Jonah’s bags are missing.

He looks around in confusion. Surely Jonah would like to see the results of his labor, gloat despite the wickedness he used to procure Jonathan’s release.

He looks out the window at the vast expanse of forest. An empty carriage is waiting below, but Jonathan can’t tell if it’s the one they arrived in. If Jonah is still in Schwartzwald or if he fled on the first train out.

Childish when Jonathan knows where he can find Jonah anyways, should he truly wish to.

His eyes blur and refocus on his reflection in the glass panes. He flinches instinctively back and so does his image. Moving as he moves, blinking as he blinks, eyes only as frightened and knowing as Jonathan’s are.

A sob of relief chokes him and, oh, how he longs to hear Jonah’s explanation.

In a round about sort of way, one he should have been expecting, he sees it in a pile of papers left on the table.

Jonathan finds himself apprehensive of parting gifts and it takes him longer than his pride would like to admit before he shuffles through them.

Jonah hasn’t included a note to excuse his sudden departure, but rather agreement papers for employment at Millbank Penitentiary.

His memory of the night before is in tatters, but seeing the document, he is sure he remembers signing his name, or a contract near enough to. He remembers the feeling of wanting, so badly, to know. To recognize.

To agree.

The paper in front of him might as well confirm the vague recollection true; Jonah’s elegant script and signature of authentication.

The outline explains what is expected of him in his new place of employment, his tenure, his salary, and that his services will be contracted out of The Magnus Institute, going into effect six weeks from today.

The ink is dry but the writing is slanted and blotched, implying the haste with which it was written.

Jonathan frowns. Why? What is the point at all of it? _Payment?_ This is what Jonah believes is owed to him?

Beneath the papers of Millbank, Jonathan finds tickets. Train tickets. For a solitary passenger, confirming that Jonah has fled like a coward.

Jonathan drops his head into his hands, unsure if he should feel grateful or wary that the other shoe has finally dropped.

He wonders if anything ever means something to Jonah, or if, as rumor suggests, his life truly is nothing more than conquering ghost stories, hoarding his knowledge, and woe betide the fool who interrupts his unholy pursuits.

* * *

He takes Jonah’s ticket and leaves Schwarzwald without a backwards glance.

* * *

Miraculously, Jonathan finds he’s able to slip back into his old life with few questions as to his absence. What had felt to him like years of torment had, in actuality, barely spanned the space of two months. He excuses himself easily by invoking Albrecht’s death and an extended period of mourning.

Jonathan believes, as surely any court of law would believe, that the fraudulent methods used to gain his signature null and void Jonah’s ludicrous contract. When Jonah makes no effort to contact him in the weeks following, he resolves to put that chapter of his life to rest.

It is, of course, easier said than done and is a slow going process. There are times he has unfounded anxiety. Entering a restaurant or going to the store, when the patrons turn to regard him. But their attention is innocent, looking only to see who the new arrival is and glancing away.

* * *

He catches the flu a month later, which is just his damnable luck.

It progresses steadily until he feels poorly enough to consult a physician. They joke that doctors should never be their own patients, but likewise agree in finding nothing but a worsening cold, lingering past its due.

Jonathan finds his mind wandering to Millbank, wondering on the role he would play there. What sort of patients he’d be asked to treat and if their crimes would stretch his capabilities to be an impartial physician. What sort of horrific men might grace his doors or, god forbid, he find an inmate wrongly incarcerated.

It’s pleasant to hypothesize, which is bothersome enough, but more worrying is it’s only when his contemplation turns to genuine interest that his symptoms begin to lessen.

* * *

He’s never been inside Millbank, has scarcely seen pictures upon its completion, yet somehow the image of it is burned into his mind.

Preposterous of course, and yet…

What little Jonathan does know of Millbank is few and far between, one fact of which, unfortunately, is the name of its architect: Robert Smirke.

The same Smirke whose mind Jonah was so quick to defend.

Jonathan pinches the bridge of his nose.

It’s an effort to stop himself from making paranoid connections, to stop himself weaving Magnus conspiracies and tying himself up in the threads.

But, loathe as he is to fall into the trap, Jonathan is more than certain the man has something planned for that place; something that he’s doing his damndest to rope others into.

He can _feel_ it in the pull at the pit of his stomach, like a leash incessantly tugging him towards Jonah. To Millbank. An itch behind his eyes and throbbing in his head.

He resolves to think of it as an addiction. And, as such, an affliction that will go away with stubborn resolve.

And, like the poor fools who endeavor to abruptly choose withdrawal, he finds himself sweating and shaking and ill.

* * *

Seven weeks after Jonathan signed Jonah’s damn contract and one week past his expected employment, his illness progresses until he can no longer deny its cruel origins.

Nor find the strength to go about his day.

Jonathan wonders, if he cut into his own stomach what would he find? Organs or eyes.

* * *

He thinks of writing to Jonah, on his deathbed. Scathing condemnation and spitting hatred. He finds that while his thoughts become more and more resolved to do just that, so does his strength to make it a reality.

Evil. Jonah is pure evil.

Is it tantamount to suicide to die in his bed when he knows a ready cure?

Is Jonah Magnus worth his life?

* * *

Jonah’s co-workers are hot on Jonathan’s heels as he storms through the halls of The Magnus Institute, looking for the bastard.

Jonathan has long considered Jonah’s institute a horrid place long before the unpleasantness that has since sullied their relationship but, before, where Jonathan had believed its nature uncomfortably macabre, bordering on outright offensive, it now seems…

It seems like a building that is alive.

He can feel faint pressure in the walls, pressing lightly down with keen, sentient interest. A periphery dissection, tapping curiously at bits and pieces of himself.

Jonah had clearly wasted no time putting the knowledge he gained from Württemberg’s tomb into practical use. He wonders how deep the rot saturates the building and if its bled into Millbank.

A question too naïve to be voiced aloud.

Despite surely hearing his loud approach, Jonah startles when Jonathan bangs into his office, throwing open the door with enough force to make it rebound, slamming itself shut with an echoing violence over the objections of his pursuers.

The door jams and for the few moments it takes the employees to work at the door, Jonathan and Jonah take each other in. Back to square one, with secrets and distrust and so much godawful history it would break Jonathan’s heart, had he any delusions left to believe in Jonah.

And then Jonah’s fellows break through, taking in the scene with wild concern and confusion. 

“Sir, should we– should we alert the police, sir?”

Jonah hesitates, staring deeply into Jonathan’s eyes before saying, “No. No, not yet.” He rises slowly to his feet, hands where they can see them. “Jonathan, please. Take a seat. Let us talk this through without getting the authorities involved.”

And what good could the authorities be for Jonathan, but to toss him in a cell to sleep off his hysteria. He nods curtly and Jonah dismisses his reluctant co-workers.

“How are you feeling?” Jonah asks once they are alone.

“ _Vindicated_.”

“Wonderful. I admit, I was concerned you might be somewhat… aggrieved.”

Jonathan is not a violent man. He has always believed fisticuffs to be the theatrics of the intellectually weak, but he’s beginning to see the appeal. Jonathan crosses the distance between them, hands clenched in a fist that he does not yet throw.

He should have rehearsed a speech for this confrontation, or at the least outlined a draft because, now, with so many complaints coming to mind, he doesn’t know where to begin. The abandonment? The drugging? This new unknown sickness replacing the old?

“How dare you?”

Jonah raises his eyebrow. “To which part are you referring?”

Jonathan laughs, bitter and hateful. “Begin where you will, Jonah. You’ve many wrongdoings to choose from.”

Jonah, the bastard, appears to give this deep consideration. “I thought,” he says slowly, “you would welcome a return normalcy.”

“And you as well, Jonah? Fleeing like a coward, that you might hide away with your books?”

“I felt giving you space to work through—”

“The hell you did!”

“Of course I did. There was nothing I could have said that would not have been better learned at your own leisure and you hardly required a minder for your return.”

“I trusted you!”

Jonah flinches, but rallies almost at once. “Yes, well, that appears to have been a mistake.”

“Did you ever care, Jonah? Even once?”

Jonah looks at his desk, rubbing a hand across his brow. He finds, eventually, if not a direct answer then a sensible one. “Need my emotions factor into the results when you find them so reprehensible?”

“I’d like to know,” Jonathan bites out between clenched teeth.

Jonah shrugs. “If I cared what you felt I would not have so callously tricked you.”

“ _Tricked?!_ Then what on god’s green earth does ‘forced’ mean to you?” Jonathan snaps, but holds up his hands forestalling an answer that he doesn’t have the patience to hear. “I want that contract, Jonah. _Now_ , or so help me…”

Jonah eyes him warily before reaching into his desk, pulling out drawers and shifting through folders. He holds the papers out but doesn’t let go when Jonathan endeavors to snatch them away.

“I am trying to think of a way to explain your unorthodox situation without frightening you,” Jonah says, “as I know you fear for your soul and believe the fairytales of devil’s contracts.” Jonathan glares hatefully and Jonah continues with gentler certainty. “While once symbolically important, this contract is now nothing more than paper and ink. Rip it to shreds if you will, but do you truly think me so clumsy that it’s a single sheet of parchment standing between you and… Simply put, it is the promise of societies laws to pay you for your labor and that is all.”

Jonathan rips the papers free from Jonah’s grip. He scowls at his signature on the page. Ludicrous! Hardly a signature at all for the clumsiness of the drunken scrawl! A notarized X would be more professional for Jonah’s _grand_ institute.

Jonathan hisses, “And if I go to _society_? Tell the public what you are, what _this place_ is?”

Jonah’s stare is more piercing than any previously leveled his way. “Don’t,” Jonah advises. “I’m telling you this as someone loathe to see you suffer further pain, Jonathan. That is an unwise course of action. Don’t do it.”

“Or you’ll kill me?”

“ _You_ came into _my_ life, Jonathan. I considered your severing of ties to be the end of our acquaintanceship and bore you no ill will for your decision. It wasn’t I who stormed into your business, dragging you to churches or pleading to share your bed.”

“And this is my punishment, then?”

“Yes,” Jonah hisses, planting his hands on his desk and leaning forward. “You asked for my assistance and this is my solution. It is my only solution.”

“To be bound to you?”

“And what a terrible fate that is,” Jonah says, sharp and offended. “Trapped in a respectable, well-paying job where you needn’t fear going to bed each night. Take to the streets if you will, but don’t call upon me to save you again.” Jonah says with wretched finality, such conviction of a fate in need of rescuing that Jonathan is at a loss for how to reply.

Jonah speaks for him, visibly reaching for patience. “You can leave here, Jonathan. You can never see me again. But your options are to report to Millbank or die a slow, unpleasant death. It’s out of my hands, now. I’ll draw up a new contract for you, if you like? One I’d implore you to sign with a more level head,” Jonah says, managing not to sound haughty or triumphant. Disappointed, perhaps. Withdrawn. “I’ll have it sent to Millbank. The foreman there is a good man, by your standards. At best, he knows my name in passing.”

In passing, or the arrogant sign above Jonah’s building, egotistically naming the institute after himself.

“Unless… there’s anything you’d like to renegotiate? Within reason, of course.”

“I’m to trust any document you put before me?”

“I’m afraid I’m the only one authorized to put contracts together.”

“Well then that’s fitting, isn’t it Jonah? May God save the damned soul when you _do_ find someone.”

Jonah frowns, unhappy at the heavy words laced with meaning.

“Jonathan, I–”

But there’s no point, not in any of it. A fool’s errand to think Jonah will change his mind; would even know where to begin to change his pattern of use and discard.

Jonathan turns on his heel, wrenching the door open. “Go to hell, Jonah.” and slams it behind him.

* * *

Millbank isn’t the easiest job Jonathan has ever had.

A brutal, unhappy place that, on more than one occasion, has made him long for the disconnect Jonah has with the world. The ability to watch and understand, without the trappings of empathy corrupting his actions.

Given the small city they both reside in and their even smaller circle of society, avoiding Jonah is easier than he’d have expected. On the few occasions when their mutual attendance has been socially mandatory they exchange polite nods or short, clipped conversation if pressed.

More often than not what Jonathan sees is Robert Smirke and Jonah gravitating towards each other. It never fails to remind him of Jonah’s insistence they were passing acquaintances. It never fails to remind him of the curious relationship they each have with Millbank.

And there is a sinister psychology at play in the prisons design; a great deal more experimental on the inside than the clever ingenuity the tabloids suggest. In practice, it is far from brilliant.

Confusing by design with twisting architecture that is wholly impractical. There are times even Jonathan gets turned around in the maze and soon he begins to believe the rumors of secret doors leading to ghoulish hellscapes and cellblocks that descend into such pitch blackness as make hardened officers sob in terror.

He keeps the belief of these claims to himself, of course. He worries that to gives veracity to ghost stories will embroil others down routes far more dangerous than uncanny cobwebs overtaking the staircases.

He worries, too, that there is an unspoken agreement between himself and Jonah; that the knowledge of Schwarzwald and the Institute is to be kept a closely guarded secret, or else…

Or else.

Though it pains him, Jonathan keeps his mouth shut when inmates and guards speak of taking their wild encounters to The Magnus Institute.

Jonah implies, just the once, in his maddening double-speak where more words are said than spoken, that Jonathan could find a place in his twisted sphere of the occult. Says, with just a glance and worlds of hindsight, that there are shades of him that would marvel Jonathan.

He offers once and doesn’t speak of it again.

Jonathan never revisits the proposal. Instead, he decides to embrace the fiction that Millbank is a job he has chosen for himself. Some days are better than others, but his role there feels neither like he’s become an accomplice in Jonah’s villainy nor fallen prey to it. He can accept it as the best possible outcome and leave well enough alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers:
> 
> After the confrontation in Württemberg’s tomb, chapter 4, Jonah drugs Jonathan's drink in order to get him to sign a contract working at Millbank.
> 
> [Check out the _amazing_ art SJ drew for this story!](https://focsle.tumblr.com/post/617033123169976320)


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